THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 

From  the  collection  of 
Julius  Doerner,  Chicago 
Purchased,  1918. 


. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


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THE 


\v'  1 . u \ \ 

GIRLHOOD 

OF 

SHAKESPEARE’S  HEROINES 


A SERIES  OF  TALES, 


MARY  COWDEN  CLARKE, 

AUTHOR  OF  THE  CONCORDANCE  TO  SHAKESPEARE. 


“ as  petty  to  his  ends, 

As  is  the  morn-dew  on  the  myrtle  leaf 
!Xo  his  grand  sea.” 

Shakespeare . 


FIRST  SERIES. 


NEW  YORK  & BOSTON : 

C.  S.  FRANCIS  & COMPANY 
1857. 


i 


v/  '■J 


st 

%/OXj 

V'  \ 


PREFACE. 


If  ever  Preface  were  especially  needful,  it  is  surely  so  in  the  present 
instance,  to  state  an  explanatory  word  concerning  the  design  of  the  work, 
and  an  exculpatory  word  touching  the  choice  of  its  subject. 

The  design  has  been,  to  trace  the  probable  antecedents  in  the  history 
of  some  of  Shakespeare’s  women  ; to  imagine  the  possible  circumstances 
and  influences  of  scene,  event,  and  associate,  surrounding  the  infant  life 
of  his  heroines,  which  might  have  conduced  to  originate  and  foster  those 
germs  of  character  recognized  in  their  maturity,  as  by  him  developed  ; 
to  conjecture  what  might  have  been  the  first  imperfect  dawnings  of  that 
which  he  has  shown  us  in  the  meridian  blaze  of  perfection : and  it  was 
believed  that  such  a design  would  combine  much  matter  of  interesting 
speculation,  afford  scope  for  pleasant  fancy,  and  be  productive  of  enter- 
tainment in  the  various  narratives. 

Although  little  or  no  attempt  will  be  found  in  these  tales  to  give 
pictures  of  the  times  in  which  their  chief  actors  may  be  supposed  to  have 
lived,  yet  it  i3  hoped  that  no  gross  violation  of  probability  in  period, 
P scene,  or  custom,  has  been  committed.  The  development  of  character, 
not  of  history,  has  been  the  intention.  In  the  case  of  the  early  historic 
personage  who  figures  in  these  biographic  tales — Lady  Macbeth — names 
and  facts  have  been  used  ; but  with  as  little  regard  to  their  strict  place 
in  history,  as  was  paid  by  the  poet  himself,  who  took  the  story  from  the 
old  chronicles,  and  modelled  it  after  his  own  fashion. 

If  it  be  borne  in  mind  that  all  climax  in  incident  and  sentiment  was 
to  be  carefully  avoided  throughout  these  stories, — inasmuch  as  they  are 


406:209 


4 


PREFACE. 


merely  preliminaries  to  catastrophes  already  ordained, — the  obstacles  in 
the  way  of  giving  them  startling  features  of  romance  will  be  understood. 
The  aim  has  been  to  invent  such  adventures  as  might  be  supposed  to 
color  the  future  lives ; to  place  the  heroines  in  such  situations  as  should 
naturally  lead  up  to,  and  account  for,  the  known  conclusion  of  their  sub- 
sequent confirmed  character  and  after-fate;  in  short,  to  invest  each  story 
with  consistent  and  appropriate  interest. 

I would  also  remind  my  indulgent  readers  (and  may  mine  be  such  !), 
when  they  find  me  venturing  to  make  Shakespeare’s  people  act  and 
speak,  that  here,  his  women  are  in  their  girlhood , — these  are  their 
“ sallet  days,”  when  they  are  u green  in  judgment,” — immature, — but 
the  opening  buds  of  the  future  “ bright  consummate  flowers”  which  he 
has  given  to  us  in  immortal  bloom. 

My  exculpatory  word — my  word  in  extenuation — is  this.  I beseech 
my  readers  to  believe  that  love,  not  presumption,  prompted  the  subject 
of  this  series  of  stories : — 

Not  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill, 

But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire ; 

And,  born  of  love,  the  vague  desire 
That  spurs  an  imitative  wilL 

“ In  Memoriam? 

Shakespeare  himself  is  my  voucher  that 

Never  any  thing  can  be  amiss 
When  simpleness  and  duty  tender  it ; 
******* 

And  what  poor  duty  cannot  do, 

Noble  respect  takes  it  in  might,  not  merit 


TALE  I. 


PORTIA;  THE  HEIRESS  OF. BELMONT. 


“ If  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly  match, 

And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women, 

And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawn’d  with  the  other ; for  the  poor  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow.” 

Merchant  of  Venice . 


In  the  University  of  Padua,  were,  once  upon  a time,  two  fellow- 
students,  who  entertained  for  each  other  a more  than  usually  lively  re- 
gard. This  regard  seemed  to  grow  out  of  a peculiar  sympathy  of  feel- 
ing, which  sometimes  exists  between  two  lads  of  like  age,  though  of  dis- 
similar conditions  ; for  one  of  these  students  was  lively,  ardent,  and 
prosperous,  while  the  other  was  calm,  reserved,  and  very  poor.  But 
though  Guido  di  Belmonte  revelled  in  every  good  gift  of  fortune, — was 
the  son  of  a rich  Italian  Count,  and  the  indulged  heir  of  a fond  father, 
yet  his  prosperity,  instead  of  injuring  his  nature  and  rendering  him  im- 
perious and  selfish,  did  but  make  him  frank  and  generous,  with  a strong 
capability  of  enjoyment ; while  Bellario,  the  other  student,  the  less  fa- 
vored of  fortune, — being  the  child  of  a retired  officer,  possessed  of  little 
but  his  honorably-acquired  wounds  and  an  unblemished  name, — found 
cheerfulness  in  a sedate  reflective  habit  of  mind,  hope  in  the  thought 
of  achieving  renown  in  the  future  employment  of  his  talents,  and  enjoy- 
ment in  the  present  epoch  of  study  and  intellectual  culture.  Thus  it 
came  that  these  two  young  men,  each  earnest  in  his  enjoyment  of 


6 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


student-life,  found  sympathy  exist  between  them,  attachment  arise  and 
strengthen,  and  a warmth  of  friendship  ensue,  which  burnt  with  a steady 
and  kindly  glow  while  life  endured. 

During  this  youthful  period  of  his  life,  there  was  one  point  on  which 
Bellario’s  well-ordered  mind  and  careful  study  did  not  lead  him  to  a 
true  wisdom.  They  might  have  taught  him  that  poverty  was  no  shame, 
that  the  practice  of  frugality  and  self-denial  was  a virtue  rather  than  a 
blemish  in  a young  man’s  conduct,  and  that  it  was  due  to  the  nobility 
of  friendship  to  have  no  reserves  upon  such  matters  ; but  the  sensitive 
pride  of  the  young  collegian  shrank  from  the  avowal  of  his  slender 
means,  and  the  secrets  of  his  penurious  dwelling  were  coyly  guarded 
from  all  eyes. 

His  friend  Guido,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  own  resources,  had  no  sus- 
picion of  the  real  motive  that  held  his  fellow-student  silent  upon  all 
that  referred  to  home  topics,  and  domestic  relations  ; and  it  was  rather 
from  a desire  to  enjoy  Bellario’s  society  during  the  pleasant  season  of 
holiday  and  relaxation,  that  he  always  invited  him  to  spend  the  vaca- 
tions at  his  father’s  seat  of  Belmont,  than  from  any  idea  that  he  was 
thus  procuring  his  friend  an  indulgence  in  luxury  and  refined  entertain- 
ment, which  he  could  never  otherwise  have  an  opportunity  of  enjoying. 
Delightful  were  the  intervals  thus  spent  together  by  the  two  young  men. 
The  sense  of  entire  leisure,  rendered  doubly  grateful  by  previous  labor ; 
the  freedom  of  action  and  open-air  sports,  after  a long  course  of  sedentary 
pursuits ; the  repose  of  mind  in  contrast  with  its  late  strained  exertion, 
— all  these  enjoyed  amidst  a scene  of  rural  beauty,  voluptuous  retire- 
ment, and  tasteful  magnificence,  pervading  the  domain  and  household  of 
a wealthy  nobleman,  conspired  to  make  these  vacations  seasons  of  unal- 
loyed gratification  to  our  two  students.  Arm-in-arm  they  would  saunter 
up  and  down  the  avenue  of  lordly  Belmont,  whiling  many  an  hour  in 
eager  converse.  Here,  beneath  the  cool  umbrage  of  those  thick-spread- 
ing trees,  secure  from  the  noontide  blaze  of  even  an  Italian  sun,  they 
would  discourse  pleasantly  of  their  books,  their  courses  of  study  past 
and  to  come,  their  treasured  lore,  their  increasing  thirst  for  knowledge 
with  every  freshly-acquired  draught,  their  present  zest  in  seeking,  their 


THE  HEIRESS  OP  BELMONT. 


7 


future  hope  of  profit.  Here,  too,  in  the  scarce  less  radiant  splendor  of 
an  Italian  moonlight,  would  they  speak  confidingly  of  heart-aspirations, 
of  high-reaching  schemes  for  distinguished  manhood,  virtuous  life, 
rational  happiness,  and  trusted  immortality.  The  young  Count,  Guido, 
would  dilate,  in  all  the  gay  tenderness  of  an  uncorrupted  heart,  upon 
the  pure  joys  he  proposed  to  himself,  when  he  should  at  some  future 
day  bring  a fair  bride  to  share  with  him  the  beauties  of  this  broad  do- 
main ; when  he  should  dwell  in  loving  communion  with  a womanly 
heart ; when  he  should  emulate  her  in  fostering  kindness  to  the  neigh- 
boring poor ; when  they  should  partake  in  the  gentle  duties  of  tending 
the  helpless  infancy,  and  implanting  goodly  principles  in  the  youthful 
breasts  of  their  offspring ; and  when  together  they  should  live  and  die 
in  sweet  mutual  help. 

And  in  his  turn,  Bellario  would  playfully  declare  that  he  would  live 
and  die  a bachelor,  wooing  and  wedding  no  other  bride  than  Justice, 
who  was  his  professed  mistress.  That  he  meant  to  win  honor  and  re- 
nown at  the  bar,  and  that  he  intended  to  make  his  name  famous  among 
the  lawyers  of  his  time.  That  such  a celebrity  as  he  aimed  at,  was  only 
to  be  attained  by  the  devotion  of  a life-long  assiduity  to  his  task,  and 
that  he  therefore  must  early  resolve  upon  excluding  all  claims  of  love 
upon  his  thoughts,  dedicating  them  wholly  and  undividedly  to  ambition. 

Time  wore  on  ; the  old  Count  of  Belmont  died,  and  young  Guido 
inherited  the  paternal  estate.  Yet  still  he  lingered  at  the  University, 
unwilling  to  quit  the  sweets  of  study,  and  the  associations  of  boyhood, 
or  to  curtail  the  season  of  youth  by  assuming  the  prerogative  of  man- 
hood In  the  academic  shades  of  learned  Padua  he  still  tarried,  well 
pleased  to  remain  constantly  with  his  friend  Bellario,  who  studied  unre- 
mittingly to  qualify  himself  for  his  intended  profession. 

Shortly  after  the  time  when  Guido  di  Belmonte  wore  mourning  for 
his  father,  Bellario’s  suit  bore  sable  marks  that  he  also  had  to  deplore 
the  loss  of  some  relation  ; but  as  he  alluded  in  no  way  to  the  nature  of 
his  bereavement,  so  no  allusion  to  the  subject  was  ever  made  by  his 
fellow-students ; not  even  by  his  friend,  who  was  accustomed  to  observe 
silence  on  those  points  on  which  Bellario  did  not  speak  first.  There 


8 


POETIA  ; 


was  frank  communion  between  the  young  men  upon  most  themes  of 
pleasant  converse  : but,  as  before  remarked,  personal  concerns  and  home 
relations  were  never  referred  to  by  the  young  law-student,  being  matter 
of  his  most  scrupulous  and  proud  reserve. 

At  length  a season  of  vacation  occurred,  when,  upon  the  young 
Count’s  usual  invitation  to  Bellario,  that  he  should  accompany  him  to 
Belmont,  the  friend  refused  ; without,  however,  alleging  any  reason  for 
this  refusal  beyond  the  bare  fact  of  its  being  out  of  his  power  to  in* 
dulge  himself  with  the  pleasure  of  going,  on  this  occasion. 

“ But  why  not,  caro  mio  ?”  urged  Guido  ; “ you  have  suiely  no  en- 
gagement so  imperative  as  to  interfere  with  the  one  so  long  understood 
between  us,— that  you  should  spend  every  vacation  at  Belmont,  beauti- 
ful Belmont ; now  all  my  own,  but  which  will  scarce  seem  so,  without 
my  friend  to  share  its  beauties  with  me.” 

Bellario  wrung  his  hand  gratefully,  for  all  reply,  merely  repeating— 
a I cannot ; do  not  urge  me.” 

“ But  I must ; I will.  How  is  it  that  I,  the  lord  of  Belmont,  am 
to  be  thwarted  in  my  dearest  wish  ? Come,  good  Signor  Avocato,  give 
me  an  infinity  of  reasons  why  you  ‘ cannot.’  Let  us  have  some  of  your 
special  pleading  here,  to  satisfy  me.  I know  not  why  I should  be  con- 
tented with  your  sovereign  c cannot  ’ without  farther  explanation,  any 
more  than  why  you  are  prevented  from  coming  to  Belmont  when  we 
both  wish  it.  Or  do  we  indeed  both  wish  it  ?”  added  he,  smiling  in  his 
friend’s  face  ; u are  you  tired  of  Belmont  ? Confess,  if  you  are ; and 
we  will  exchange  the  shady  avenue  and  solitary  terrace  of  our  country 
life,  for  the  gay  revelry  of  Venice — her  masques,  her  feastings,  her 
torch-light  merry-making.” 

Bellario  met  his  friend’s  look  with  one  as  frank  as  his  own ; — “ Bel- 
mont is  to  me,  as  it  has  ever  been — the  scene  of  my  best  enjoyment. 
The  disappointment  is  as  great  to  me — nay,  far  greater — than  it  can  be 
to  you,  my  generous  friend ; be  assured,  I need  no  urging,  when  my 
own  desire  to  be  with  you  pleads  so  powerfully ; but  in  this  case,  you 

yourself  would  be  the  first  to ” then  checking  himself,  he  briefly 

added,  “ once  more,  I repeat ; believe,  me,  I cannot.” 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


9 


a In  this  case  ?”  quickly  repeated  Guido  ; in  his  eagerness  forgetting 
how  nearly  he  was  transgressing  the  bounds  of  discretion  in  thus  cate- 
chising his  friend  beyond  what  even  such  friendship  as  theirs  might 
warrant “ In  this  case  ? It  is  a point  of  honor,  then  ! A quarrel  1 
A duel?”  But  seeing  Bellario  shake  his  head,  with  a smile  at  his 
ardent  questioning,  he  ran  on  with  : — “ No,  no,  of  course  not ; had  it 
been  so,  you  would  have  had  me  for  your  second— but  how  then  % No 
friend  has  so  good  a right  as  myself  to  engross  your  company,  and  to 
no  friend  will  I yield  you — mind,  to  no  — But  stay  added  he, 
interrupting  himself,  as  a sudden  thought  struck  him  ; “ though  to  no 
friend,  no  man,  can  I give  you  up,  yet  it  may  be,  that  — — ” 

He  stopped  ; and  laying  his  hand  on  his  friend’s  sleeve,  laughed 
out — ■“  Ah  ah  ! Signor  Avocato,  fairly  caught ! So  then  the  stern  an- 
chorite, the  bachelor  student,  the  devoted  bridegroom  of  the  law,  the 
destined  spouse  of  justice,  is  actually  the  thrall  of  some  fair  lady  ; and 
it  is  a mortal  woman,  after  all,  who  has  these  claims  upon  your  time, 
and  prevents  your  going  with  me  to  Belmont,  I cry  you  mercy,  caro 
mio  !” 

Bellario’s  face  flushed  crimson  to  his  very  brow.  He  no  longer  met 
his  friend’s  look  as  before,  yet  he  still  smiled,  though  gravely  ; and  he 
grasped  Guido’s  hand  in  a firm  conclusive  manner,  as  if  he  would  close 
all  further  discussion.  u Be  satisfied,  dear  friend  ; it  may  not  be.” 

Guido  di  Belmonte  warmly  returned  the  pressure  ; and  his  generous 
frank  nature  permitted  no  wounded  feeling  at  his  friend’s  reserve,  to 
mingle  with  the  regret  with  which  he  now  withdrew  his  suit,  and  bade 
him  adieu  until  they  should  meet  again  next  college  term.  But  on  the 
following  morning,  while  pursuing  his  solitary  way  towards  Belmont, 
accompanied  solely  by  a faithful  attendant,  who  followed  him  on  horse- 
back, he  could  not  help  giving  way  to  a feeling  of  mortification  akin  to 
anger,  at  being  deprived  of  the  company  of  his  beloved  friend  Bellario 
on  a journey,  which  had  heretofore  been  so  fruitful  a source  of  delight 
to  them  both. 

u It  is  some  whim,  some  fancied  necessity,  that  thus  detains  him,” 
murmured  the  young  Count  to  himself,  as  he  rode  onward  ; “ Bellario 


10 


PORTIA  : 


is  so  scrupulous  when  he  conceives  some  point  of  right  to  be  in  ques- 
tion, that  he  is  ever  ready  to  sacrifice  inclination  to  duty.  I know  his 
unselfish  heart,  and  I’ll  be  bound  it  is  some  vexatious  claim  or  other 
upon  his  time  and  aid,  which  is  thus  permitted  to  interfere  with  our 
pleasant  holiday  ! For  after  all,  though  he  did  change  color  at  my  words, 
I do  not  believe  it  was  a woman  that  he  stays  for.  Had  he  yielded  his 
thoughts  to  love,  and  forsworn  law,  he  could  not  have  kept  so  great  a re- 
volution in  his  heart  a secret  from  his  friend  Guido.  No,  he  is  still 
constant  to  his  old  adoration  for  musty  precedents,  yellow  shrivelled 
parchments,  and  time-honored  precepts  of  legislation,  over  which  he  will 
sit  wrapt  in  enamored  contemplation,  hour  by  hour,  forgetful  iff  all  this 
bright  world  contains.  I’ll  wager  now,  that  it  is  in  order  to  waste  no 
hour  apart  from  the  prosecution  of  this  bewitching  pursuit,  that  he 
has  thought  it  right  to  deny  himself  and  me  this  holiday.  He  dropped 
some  words,  not  long  since,  to  the  effect  that  his  progress  did  not  keep 
pace  with  his  desires.  How  came  I to  forget  this,  when  I besought 
him  yesterday  ? I did  not  urge  him  with  sufficient  warmth.  I have  a 
great  mind  to  turn  back,  and  see  if  I cannot  plead  with  better  effect. 
He  must  not,  ought  not  to  shut  himself  up  during  this  charming  time. 
He  will  be  ill,  or  moped  to  death,  with  his  absurd  scruples  and  notions. 
Duty,  indeed ! It  is  his  duty  to  enjoy  his  holiday — to  come  and  pay 
seasonable  homage  to  all-bounteous  nature,  to  revel  in  her  beauteous 
gifts,  to  inhale  the  pure  free  air,  to  bask  in  the  glorious  sunshine,  to 
ride  forth  joyously — to  come  with  me  to  Belmont,  in  short ! — I will  re- 
turn, and  entreat  him  once  more,  to  do  himself  and  me  that  right !” 

As  he  concluded  his  reverie,  Guido  turned  his  horse’s  head  in  the  di- 
rection whence  he  had  just  come ; but  he  now  proceeded  at  a very  dif- 
ferent pace  from  the  one  which  he  had  previously  allowed  the  steed  to 
take.  Then  it  had  been  slow,  and  accordant  with  the  rider’s  mind,  all 
unwilling  to  pursue  his  solitary  journey ; now  it  was  alert,  eager,  and 
bounding  forward  on  the  way  to  Padua — to  his  friend  Bellario. 

On  reaching  the  University,  he  hastily  dismounted,  throwing  the 
rein  to  his  attendant,  bidding  him  wait,  while  he  went  to  seek  one  of 
the  heads  of  the  college,  who  might  inform  him  where  to  seek  his  fel- 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


ii 


low-student,  who  by  this  time  he  knew  would  have  returned  home.  The 
professor  mused  a moment,  when  the  young  nobleman  made  the  inquiry ; 
but  presently  said  : — u Bellario  has  always  made  a secret  of  his  abode, 
praying  me  not  to  let  it  be  generally  known  ; but  this  prohibition  could 
not  be  meant  to  extend  to  you,  Count  Guido,  who  are,  I know,  his 
bosom  friend.  It  is  in  the  Strada  del  Popolo,”  added  he,  indicating  a 
mean  suburban  street,  leading  out  of  the  city,  and  describing  accurately 
the  house  where  Bellario  dwelt.  The  young  man  paid  little  heed  to  the 
former  portion  of  the  professor’s  speech,  in  his  eagerness  to  learn  the 
main  point,  the  direction  of  his  friend’s  dwelling-place  ; having  obtained 
which,  he  took  a hasty  leave,  and  set  forth  on  his  search,  bidding  his  at- 
tendant, Balthazar,  saddle  another  horse,  and  bring  it  round  with  his 
own,  to  a certain  spot  where  he  would  meet  him,  and  proceed  thence  to 
Belmont  once  more,  in  company  with  his  friend,  whose  acquiescence  in 
the  plan,  he  now  felt  confident  he  should  gain.  So  sanguine  is  youth  ; 
so  ardent  in  affection  was  Guido  di  Belmonte. 

He  readily  found  his  way  to  the  Strada  del  Popolo,  and  as  readily 
distinguished  the  house  indicated  to  him  by  the  professor.  He  was 
slightly  struck  by  its  lowly  appearance,  but  no  otherwise  than  as  un- 
worthy to  contain  so  noble  a being  as  his  friend,  and  merely  as  an  ad- 
ditional reason  for  inducing  him  to  exchange  its  unattractive  precincts 
for  a more  congenial  sojourn  with  himself  at  Belmont.  He  stepped  for- 
ward to  put  aside  the  dark  heavy  curtain,  which  hung  in  the  doorway, 
according  to  Italian  custom,  to  exclude  the  noontide  heat ; but  he 
paused  on  the  threshold,  struck  with  what  he  beheld.  He  saw  his  friend 
seated  at  a table  strewed  with  books  and  papers,  one  of  which  he  held  in 
his  hand,  while  over  the  back  of  his  chair  leaned  a young  girl  of  exqui- 
site beauty ; who,  with  one  arm  around  Bellario’s  neck,  in  the  other  hand 
held  a pen,  with  the  feather  of  which  she  traced  the  lines  on  the  paper 
he  held,  while  her  cheek  closely  touched  that  of  the  young  law-student, 
as  they  together  scanned  the  document.  So  engrossed  were  they  with 
its  perusal,  that  no  idea  of  Guido’s  presence  reached  them ; and  so  ab- 
sorbed was  he  in  the  contemplation  of  this  unexpected  vision,  that  he 
allowed  some  minutes  to  elapse,  ere  he  became  conscious  of  his  intrusion, 


12 


PORTIA  ; 


or  made  any  movement  to  announce  his  being  there.  Many  conflicting 
feelings  rushed  through  his  heart  as  he  stood  gazing ; the  paramount 
one  of  which  was  admiration  for  the  surpassing  loveliness  of  the  young 
girl  whom  he  found  in  such  close  companionship  with  his  friend.  The 
arm  which  lay  across  Bellario’s  shoulders,  was  white  and  polished,  with 
a rounded  grace  of  outline  that  would  have  charmed  a sculptor ; the 
slender  waist  and  bended  figure  were  so  harmoniously  proportioned^  that 
the  garment  of  humblest  stuff  which  she  wore  could  nowise  conceal  their 
native  elegance  of  beauty ; the  head  was  classically  shaped,  and  com- 
pactly braided  with  smooth  raven  tresses,  surmounting  a brow  lustrous 
with  simple  purity  and  intellectual  dignity ; while  the  face  that  so  lov- 
ingly neighbored  that  of  Bellario,  could  boast  not  only  delicately-formed 
features,  but  an  expression  radiant  with  gentle  goodness. 

Amid  the  confusion  of  thoughts  which  held  the  young  Count  motion- 
less, was  one  which  prompted  him  to  wonder  how  those  downcast  eyes, — • 
now  veiled  with  their  rich  lashes  as  they  remained  bent  upon  the  paper, 
— would  look  when  they  were  raised  ; and  to  speculate  upon  the  appeal 
those  lips  would  make  when  parted  in  speech,  even  now  so  eloquent  in 
their  rosy  silence. 

He  was  startled  from  his  contemplation,  by  the  fulfilment  of  his 
wish.  The  eyes  were  suddenly  raised  ; but  he  scarcely  beheld  their  soft 
beauty,  ere  the  look  of  surprise  they  wore  recalled  him  to  a sense  of  his 
embarrassing  position  as  an  unwarranted  intruder. 

The  slight  ejaculation  of  amazement  that  escaped  her  lips  as  she 
beheld  the  stranger,  caused  Bellario  to  look  up  also,  and  in  another  in- 
stant the  fellow-students  stood  confronting  each  other  with  mutual  con- 
fusion and  embarrassment. 

Bellario’s  cheek  glowed  partly  from  surprise,  partly  from  the  stings 
of  his  old  proud  sensitiveness  on  the  score  of  his  poverty,  now  so  com- 
pletely and  unexpectedly  betrayed  to  the  eyes  of  his  friend,  and  he 
stood  without  power  to  utter  a word  ; while  Guido,  in  the  perplexity  of 
contending  emotions,  muttered  a few  half-articulate  expressions  of 
having  returned  to  ask  for  some  book  he  had  forgotten,  a few  more  of 
apology  for  having  unwittingly  infringed  their  privacy,  and  then  hastily 
withdrew. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


13 


He  hurried  to  the  spot  where  he  had  appointed  Balthazar  to  meet 
him ; and  flinging  himself  on  horseback,  he  pursued  his  way  to  Belmont 
in  a perturbation  of  mind  he  had  rarely  before  experienced. 

His  ardent  nature  suffered  much  beneath  the  check  its  affections 
had  received.  His  generosity  would  not  suffer  him  to  reflect  upon  his 
friend  for  having  withheld  this  secret  from  him  ; but  a sense  of  disap- 
pointment and  chilled  hope  keenly  beset  him,  and  a painful  surmise  of 
his  own  unworthiness  to  inspire  Bellario  with  as  strong  an  attachment 
as  his  own,  agitated  his  mind,  and  took  the  place  of  the  blessed  unmis- 
trustful serenity  of  friendship  which  had  till  now  formed  his  chief  hap- 
piness. 

u He  is  so  infinitely  my  superior,”  thought  Guido,  in  the  more  than 
candor  of  a generous  heart,  ever  ready  to  exalt  the  beloved  object  even 
at  the  expense  of  self-humiliation  and  blame,  “ that  it  is  perhaps  pre- 
sumptuous to  hope  he  could  share  his  every  thought  with  me,  as  I would 
with  him.  Entire  confidence  subsists  between  congenial  minds — and  I 
know  well  how  unequal  ours  are  in  native  power  and  intellectual 
wealth.  But  a loving  appreciation  of  his  high  qualities  might  have 
substituted  my  own  deficiency  in  the  like  endowments  ; and  my  zeal 
should  have  supplied  my  lack  of  merit.  Had  he  but  frankly  told  me 
that  he  was  married  ! That  he  could  not  leave  his  new-made  wife  to 
come  with  me  to  Belmont ! How  readily  would  my  sympathy  for  him 
have  admitted  the  plea  ! How  ungrudgingly  should  I then  have  yielded 
his  society  ! How  my  interest  in  his  happiness  would  have  prompted 
me  to  rejoice  in  this  addition  to  his  felicity — to  congratulate  him  on 
this  new  joy  ! Had  he  but  told  me  that  he  was  married  !” 

This  last  aspiration  was  still  the  burthen  of  his  thought.  It  haunted 
him  with  its  perpetual  recurrence,  as  he  wandered  alone  beneath  the 
trees  of  that  avenue  where  he  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours  with  his 
friend.  Until  at  length  the  oft-recurring  idea  was  followed  by  another 
— a question — that  smote  upon  his  heart  strangely.  “ Had  he  indeed 
told  me  that  he  was  married  to  that  fair  creature  ! — How  then?  Would 
this  intelligence  have  really  given  me  content  ? Could  I have  yielded 
my  friend  joyfully  to  her — she  to  him?  Did  not  rather  the  few  moments 


14 


PORTIA  ; 


in  which  I beheld  her,  serve  but  to  fill  me  with  unwonted  emotion,  to  the 
nigh  forgetfulness  of  my  friend,  and  my  errand  to  him'?  Might  not  the 
too  frequent  contemplation  of  her  beauty,  and  a nearer  acquaintance  with 
the  gentle  qualities  that  doubtless  consort  with  such  outward  perfection, 
end  by  inspiring  me  with  feelings  no  less  treacherous  to  friendship  than 
destructive  to  my  own  peace?  Perhaps  after  all  I should  rejoice  rather 
than  regret  that  Bellario  did  not  impart  to  me  the  existence  of  this  tie, 
or  own  that  wedded  love  had  had  power  to  win  him  from  his  old  vows  of 
lawyerly  celibacy  and  devoted  friendship.  So  that  his  happiness  is  se- 
cured, why  should  I repine  ? 

In  such  unselfish  thoughts  as  these,  did  Guido  di  Belmonte  seek  to 
console  himself  for  the  interruption  his  course  of  friendship  had  sus- 
tained ; and  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  but  that  he  derived  better  comfort 
from  such  a train  of  reflection,  than  he  could  have  done  from  an  indul- 
gence in  resentment  or  unworthy  suspicion.  A noble  heart  finds  no 
relief  in  reproach  ; no  solace  in  distrust  or  injurious  belief  of  those  it 
loves.  And  thus  the  impulses  of  a generous  mind  act  in  liberal  rever- 
sion ; like  the  earth’s  moisture  distilled  by  genial  warmth,  they  rede- 
scend in  wholesome  showers,  invigorating  and  refreshing  the  soil  whence 
they  originally  emanate. 

Not  many  hours  had  elapsed  since  the  young  Count’s  arrival  at  Bel- 
mont ; and  he  was  still  lingering  in  the  avenue,  wooing  a sense  of  re- 
turning calm,  that  was  beginning  to  steal  over  him,  in  place  of  his  late 
agitation,  when  he  was  awakened  from  his  reverie  by  a hasty  footstep, 
and  in  a few  moments  more  he  found  himself  clasped  in  the  arms  of  his 
friend. 

u Bellario  ! ” he  exclaimed  in  amazement. 

§>  “ Yes,  Bellario  returned  the  young  law-student,  u Bellario,  your 

unworthy  friend,  come  to  avow  his  error,  and  to  solicit  indulgence.” 

He  then  made  confession  of  his  weakness.  He  owned  how  he  had 
always  shrunk  from  a betrayal  of  his  poverty ; the  foolish  pride  this  had 
engendered  ; the  habit  of  reserve  it  had  induced,  so  unjust  to  warmth 
of  friendship  such  as  theirs ; and  the  apparent  unkindness  it  had  be- 
guiled him  into,  by  the  late  refusal  to  accompany  his  friend  to  Belmont 
during  the  vacation. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


15 


“Any  other  but  yourself,  my  dear  Guido,  might  have  taken  offence 
at  so  pertinacious  a refusal  from  so  unexplained  a cause.  But  knowing 
your  generosity  of  character,  I was  sure  that  you  yourself  would  be  the 
first  to  yield  the  pleasure  of  our  proposed  holiday  together,  if  you  were 
aware  that  I gave  up  the  indulgence,  in  order  not  to  leave  Portia  in 
solitude.  I overlook  the  circumstance,  that  the  total  ignorance  of  my 
home  interests  in  which  my  own  habitual  reserve  had  suffered  you  to 
remain,  did  not  admit  of  your  sympathizing  with  the  desire  I have  felt, 
ever  since  my  father’s  death,  of  spending  as  much  time  as  possible  with 
her.  It  is  lonely  enough,  poor  thing,  when  I am  at  college ; but  my 
first  vacation,  since  his  loss,  I resolved  should  be  devoted  to  her.” 

“ You  shall  return  to  her  at  once!  A horse  shall  be  saddled,  to  take 
you  back  to  Padua  immediately ! I will  not  keep  you  another  hour,  my 
friend;”  said  the  impetuous  Guido. 

“I  knew  this  would  be  your  feeling,”  replied  Bellario ; “and  yet  my 
own  folly  might  have  occasioned  me  to  lose  the  pleasure  of  hearing  you 
express  it.  However,  it  is  to  Portia  herself  that  I owe  the  present  hap- 
piness of  explanation.  Her  surprise  this  morning  at  your  sudden 
appearance  on  our  poor  threshold,  drew  from  me  immediately  after  your 
as  abrupt  departure,  a full  account  of  yourself,  of  the  friendship  that 
subsists  between  us,  and  of  the  probable  cause  of  your  seeking  me  there. 
Her  interest  in  the  relation,  her  sympathy  for  your  disappointment,  and 
her  admiration  of  your  generosity  in  returning  to  seek  the  friend  who  by 
his  want  of  frankness  had  risked  offending  you,  opened  my  eyes  to  the 
disingenuousness  of  my  own  conduct,  and  to  the  injustice  into  which  I 
had  been  betrayed  by  the  mere  desire  to  keep  a secret,  which,  after  all, 
involved  no  shame  or  disgrace.  Besides,  the  sudden  revelation  of  a se- 
cret which  we  have  long  sedulously  preserved,  will  sometimes  at  the 
same  moment  reveal  to  ourselwes  the  real  worthlessness  of  its  tenure, 
and  lead  -us  to  wonder  how  we  could  ever  have  attached  importance  to 
its  preservation.  And  thus  it  was  with  me ; I found  myself  amazed  to 
think  that  I should  have  doubted  for  a moment  whether  the  knowledge 
of  our  poverty  could  possibly  diminish  the  warmth  of  your  regard.  I 
felt  too,  that  by  the  indulgence  of  my  selfish  pride  in  veiling  from  your 


16 


PORTIA ; 


view  the  penury  m which  I lived,  I at  the  same  time  withheld  from  you 
the  pleasure  of  learning  the  sources  of  better  happiness  which  that  home 
has  lately  contained ; and  that,  while  I concealed  from  you  the  scantily- 
furnished  dwelling,  I also  debarred  you  from  knowing  one  who  can  make 
a palace  of  a hovel,  a bower  of  bliss  of  a poor  student’s  chamber — my 
dear  and  gentle  Portia!” 

u Return  to  her,  my  friend  ; return  to  your  lovely ” Poor  Guido 

could  not  articulate  the  word  wife,  but  he  echoed  her  name — “ your 
Portia !” 

“ But  not  till  I can  take  back  with  me  the  assurajce  that  I have  not 
forfeited  my  friend’s  esteem.  As  I told  you,  it  was  Portia  who  occa- 
sioned my  coming  hither,  for  she  would  not  let  me  rest,  until  I had 
sought  you,  and  expiated  my  past  reserve  by  a full  confession.  She  is 
tenacious  of  her  brother’s  honor,  I can  tell  you,  and  will  not  consent  to 
Bellario’s  suffering  an  abatement  of  regard,  even  though  his  own  conduct 
to  his  friend  may  have  deserved  so  severe  a penalty.” 

((  Your  sister !”  were  the  only  words  Guido  could  utter,  in  his  amaze- 
ment at  finding  the  true  identity  of  the  beautiful  girl  whom  he  had 
taken  for  granted  was  his  friend’s  bride. 

a Portia — my  sister.  Let  me  return  to  her  with  the  assurance  that 
you  have  forgiven  whatever  pain  my  unexplained  refusal  may  have  given 
you ; that  you  still  hold  me  worthy  of  your  esteem ; that  though  you 
are  content  to  give  her  my  company,  yet  that  we  are  as  fast  friends  as 
ever.” 

u For  ever  !”  exclaimed  Guido  ardently,  as  he  threw  himself  into  the 
arms  of  Bellario.  “ I will  take  you  back  to  her  myself!  We  return  to 
Padua  together  !” 

Then,  springing  up  the  steps  of  the  terrace,  which  lay  in  front  of  the 
house,  at  the  end  of  the  avenue,  he  led  his  friend  into  the  dining-saloon, 
where  refreshment  had  been  awaiting  untouched  and  unthought  of  dur- 
ing the  late  tumult  of  the  young  Count’s  mind.  Now,  however,  in  his 
sudden  joy,  he  felt  the  desire  for  food,  and  as  he  pledged  his  friend  in 
wine,  and  urged  him  to  eat,  after  his  late  journey,  and  before  his  coming 
one,  he  manifested  by  his  own  enjoyment  of  the  good  cheer  before  them, 
how  many  hours  had  elapsed  in  fasting  and  inquietude. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


1/ 


Bellario  felt  the  full  force  of  this  betrayal  of  his  friend’s  previous 
suffering,  and  he  inwardly  resolved  that  no  future  reserve  of  his,  should 
ever  be  permitted  to  risk  estrangement,  or  to  mar  so  perfect  an  attach- 
ment ; while  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  present  delight  of  watching 
Guido’s  joy,  and  tasting  with,  him  the  happiness  of  reconciliation. 

The  young  Count’s  spirits  rose  high  ; he  seemed  incapable  of  re- 
maining still,  now  and  then  starting  up  from  table,  giving  orders  to  his 
attendants,  and  pacing  up  and  down  the  apartment,  as  if  action  were  a 
necessary  relief  to  the  ebullition  of  feeling  within. 

“ Come,  Bellario,  one  more  cup  to  the  health  of  the  gentle  being  who 
has  restored  us  to  each  other,”  he  at  length  exclaimed,  “ and  then  we 
will  set  forth  to  Padua.  I am  impatient  to  begone,  impatient  to  be 
equal  with  her  in  the  magnanimity  of  yielding  you ; impatient  to  xelieve 
her  sisterly  suspense.  Come,  we  shall  find  the  coach  awaitiug  us  at  the 
park  gate,  at  the  lower  end  of  the  avenue.” 

u Bo  we  not  ride  as  usual  ?”  inquired  Bellario. 

“ I have  told  them  to  prepare  the  coach,  instead  of  saddling  our 
horses,”  replied  Guido  ; “ for  I have  allowed  myself  to  entertain  a hope 
that  we  shall  not  have  to  stay  long  in  Padua — that  we  shall  even  return 
to-night,  and  not  alone.” 

“ How  mean  you  ?”  asked  Bellario,  smiling  at  the  animated  eagerness 
that  shone  in  each  feature  of  his  friend’s  face ; that  danced  in  his  eyes, 
and  played  in  the  flexure  of  his  mouth. 

“ I mean,  that  I have  formed  the  hope  that  your  sister  will  be  pre- 
vailed upon  to  accompany  us  back  to  Belmont,  caro  mio  ; and  you  must 
promise  me  to  join  your  persuasion  with  mine  to  effect  this.  I shall 
think  but  poorly  of  il  Signor  Avocato’s  eloquence  in  pleading,  if  we  do 
not  succeed.” 

“We  will  hear  what  the  Counsel  has  to  say  on  the  other  side;” 
answered  Bellario.  “ Perhaps  her  prudence  may  suggest  some  obstacle 
to  so  sudden  a scheme.” 

“ But  I do  not  admit  her  as  Counsel  against  us,”  said  Guido  ; “ she 
shall  be  judge  in  this  case.” 

“ Then  you  consent  to  abide  by  her  decision  ?”  asked  Bellario. 


18 


PORTIA  ; 


u Gladly rejoined  the  young  Count.  u I have  no  hesitation  in 

placing  my  cause  in  the  hands  of  one,  who ” 

“ You  forget  that  you  are  now  changing  her  character  again  from 
a Judge  to  that  of  an  Advocate  ;”  interrupted  the  young  law-student, 
laughing. 

“ Well  then, — I willingly  refer  my  sentence  to  the  judgment  of  one 
who  has  already  given  so  generous  an  instance  of  consideration  in  my 
behalf,  by  sending  me  my  friend,”  replied  Guido. 

“ In  betraying  that  there  was  originally  a favorable  leaning  to  one 
side,  you  impugn  the  strict  uprightness  which  ought  to  characterize  a 
Judge,”  rejoined  Bellario,  “ and  thus  invalidate  the  impartiality  of  the 
verdict  you  hope  ultimately  to  obtain.” 

“ So  that  the  verdict  be  what  I desire,  I will  commute  for  any 
amount  of  partiality  to  which  it  may  be  owing,”  said  the  young  Count 
gayly  ; adding  with  a tender  depth  in  his  voice,  which  the  gayety  but 
half  concealed,  “ the  more  I owe  to  the  favor  of  my  Judge,  the  more 
welcome  will  my  hoped-for  sentence  be.” 

In  such  playful  conversation  did  our  two  friends  pass  the  time, 
until  they  reached  the  lowly  dwelling  in  the  Strada  del  Popolo.  From 
its  casement,  the  light  of  a lamp  streamed  forth,  and  showed  Bellario 
that  his  sister  was  beguiling  the  time  of  his  absence  in  copying  for  him. 
On  alighting  from  the  coach,  and  entering  the  apartment,  they  accord- 
ingly found  Portia  seated  at  a table,  busily  engaged  in  writing ; and 
as  the  rays  of  the  lamp  shed  their  reflection  upon  her  glossy  hair, 
and  gently-inclined  head,  Guido  thought  she  looked  like  the  picture 
of  some  inspired  sibyl  irradiated  by  an  intellectual  glory,  or  halo  of 
light. 

The  moment  she  perceived  her  brother,  she  arose,  and  flung  herself 
into  his  arms  to  welcome  him  home.  “ Dear  Bellario  !”  she  exclaimed  ; 
then,  perceiving  his  companion,  she  added  in  some  surprise : — “ Count 
Guido,  too  !”  After  a moment’s  modest  pause,  she  thanked  him  in  her 
own  simple  frank  manner  for  thus  proving  how  heartily  he  forgave  the 
selfish  brother  and  sister  who  wished  to  be  together,  regardless  of 
the  claims  of  friendship.  “By  permitting  you  to  return  to  me 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


19 


£0  soon,  my  Bellario,  and  by  accompanying  you  home  himself, 
your  kind  friend  has  indeed  shown  how  nobly  he  can  pardon  an 
interference  with  his  proposed  pleasure,”  concluded  she,  turning  to 
her  brother. 

“ But  I may  still  enjoy  my  proposed  pleasure eagerly  rejoined 
the  young  Count.  “ My  holiday  may  yet  be  spent  with  far  greater  de- 
light than  even  I had  pictured  to  myself,  when  first  I asked  Bellario  to 
share  it  with  me.” 

He  then,  with  his  characteristic  ardor,  poured  forth  his  petition  that 
Portia  would  crown  her  former  kindness  in  behalf  of  the  friendship  that 
subsisted  between  her  brother  and  himself,  by  consenting  to  accompany 
them  back  to  Belmont ; that  thus  they  need  neither  of  them  relinquish 
the  society  of  Bellario,  but,  on  the  contrary,  might  enhance  their  re- 
spective pleasure  by  enjoying  it  in  common.  And  when  Portia,  half 
yielding  to  his  seductive  arguments,  offered  a faint  resistance  by 
saying  she  ought  to  finish  copying  the  paper  she  had  in  hand,  he 
instantly  overruled  that  plea  with  the  reminder  that  her  brother  could 
now  copy  it  for  himself ; that  they  could  tumble  whatever  books  and 
papers  Bellario  required  into  the  coach,  and  take  them  to  Belmont  to  be 
used  at  leisure. 

Smiling  at  his  impetuosity,  and  finding  it  more  and  more  diffi- 
cult to  withstand  his  warmth  of  urgency,  she  looked  appealingly  at 
her  brother,  and  said  : — “If  you  do  not  think  it  too  late,  dear  Bel- 
lario   ” 

Guido  immediately  burst  in  with  a torrent  of  assurances  that  the 
evening  was  not  far  advanced — that  the  moonlight  was  as  brilliant  as 
noonday — that  it  was  infinitely  more  agreeable  travelling  by  night  than 
in  the  heat  of  the  sun — that  it  was  but  a two  hours’  drive  to  Belmont— 
that  it  was  the  pleasantest  road  in  all  Italy — that  he  had  set  his  heart 
upon  this  little  journey — that  he  was  sure  his  friends  would  enjoy  it 
as  much  as  he  should,  and  that  he  trusted  they  would  not  refuse  so 
great  a pleasure  as  it  would  be  to  them  all. 

The  hearts  of  the  brother  and  sister  received  almost  as  much  delight 
in  complying,  as  he  felt  in  their  compliance ; and  the  three  friends  set 


20 


PORTIA  ; 


forth  in  all  the  happiness  of  youth  and  elastic  spirits.  These  will  derive 
pleasure  from  even  every-day  incidents,  and  commonplace  occurrences ; 
and  truly,  a moonlight  drive,  through  a beautiful  country,  to  a charming 
house,  in  the  company  of  those  we  love  best,  at  any  period  of  life  might 
be  capable  of  inspiring  enthusiastic  enjoyment.  What  wonder,  then, 
that  Guido,  Bellario,  and  Portia,  thought  they  had  never  passed  two 
hours  so  enchantingly,  as  those  in  the  coach  that  took  them  to  Belmont. 

On  arriving,  they  were  received  by  an  old  lady,  who  acted  somewhat 
in  the  capacity  of  housekeeper,  but  who  had  been  no  less  a personage 
than  companion,  or  duenna,  to  the  late  Countess  di  Belmonte,  Guido’s 
mother.  This  Madame  Ursula  was  a most  stately  dame,  who  wore  the 
stiffest  of  silks,  held  herself  in  the  stiffest  of  attitudes,  and  entertained 
the  stiffest  of  dragonian  opinions.  She  was  the  ruling  rigidity  of  the 
house — the  tight  hand  over  Casa  Belmonte.  From  the  late  Countess, 
whose  unaffected  gentleness  and  easy  suavity  she  chid  as  want  of  due 
regard  to  the  dignity  of  her  station,  down  to  the  female  servants,  whose 
sins  of  carelessness,  idleness,  boldness,  or  unthrift,  she  visited  with  the 
severest  reprehension,  all  submitted  to  her  sway,  all  trembled  at  her 
frown. 

Strictly  correct,  even  to  austerity,  in  her  own  conduct,  Madame  Ur- 
sula could  make  no  allowance  for  difference  of  temperament,  admit  of  no 
excuse  for  a dereliction  from  duty.  In  her  estimation,  a fault  was  a 
sin ; an  error,  a crime.  She  was  sensitively  alive  to  indecorum ; and 
seemed  almost  to  court  impropriety,  so  anticipatively  did  she  discern 
the  very  shadow  of  its  approach.  With  her,  the  sight  of  smiles  con- 
veyed something  of  moral  offence ; gayety  of  speech  was  akin  to  de- 
pravity ; and  light-hearted  merriment  little  short  of  abomination  and 
wickedness.  High  spirits  were,  in  her  eyes,  a heinous  excess  ; laughter, 
an  odious  levity ; and  the  mere  fact  of  youth,  a sort  of  vice  in  itself. 

Madame  Ursula  was  well-born,  though  the  decayed  fortunes  of  her 
family,  and  the  sudden  death  of  her  parents,  compelled  her  early  to  be- 
come a dependant.  This  circumstance  she  could  never  forget ; and 
while  it  operated  with  the  Count  and  Countess  di  Belmonte  to  make 
them  treat  her  with  the  extreme  of  kindness,  it  urged  her  to  take  ad- 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


21 


vantage  of  their  toleration  by  indulging  her  pride  of  virtue  and  self- 
importance,  until  she  became  the  imperious  personage  here  described. 

There  was  one  individual,  however,  in  this  household,  over  whom 
the  frowns  of  Madame  Ursula  failed  in  exercising  their  usual  supremacy. 
The  young  Count  Gruido  treated  her  with  consideration,  for  the  sake  of 
her  age,  her  misfortunes,  her  former  attachment  to  his  mother,  and  the 
services  she  had  rendered,  and  still  continued  to  render,  in  the  family ; 
for  she  was  as  conscientious  in  the  discharge  of  her  own  duties,  as  she 
was  exacting  with  regard  to  those  of  others : but  he  plainly  showed  that 
he  thought  the  deference  with  which  her  opinions  had  been  regarded 
was  excessive,  and  that  he  was  not  inclined  to  observe  the  same  obedi- 
ence himself.  He  did  not  evince  this  by  opposition,  or  the  slightest 
discourtesy  of  any  kind ; he  only  let  it  be  tacitly  understood  that  his 
smiles  were  not  to  be  controlled,  his  gayety  not  to  be  checked  by  any 
forbidding  looks  on  her  part,  and  she  soon  learned  to  curb  all  expression 
of  reprobation,  with  the  exception  of  a slight  compression  of  the  lips, 
and  a little  shrill  hem,  caught  back,  stifled,  and  swallowed  up,  as  it 
were,  ere  it  could  reach  his  ears. 

On  the  evening  in  question,  when  the  young  Count  returned  to  Bel- 
mont, bringing  with  him  Bellario  and  his  sister,  Madame  Ursula  re- 
ceived the  young  people  with  a lofty  coldness  intended  to  mark  the 
disapprobation  she  felt  at  such  a wild  expedition  as  the  moonlight  drive, 
which  wore  rather  the  aspect  of  a juvenile  frolic,  than  of  a staid  visit ; 
but  the  pleasure  and  the  novelty  of  the  adventure  occupied  them  wholly, 
and  prevented  their  noting  the  old  lady’s  frigid  looks. 

Neither  did  they  perceive  the  supercilious  glance  she  bestowed  upon 
the  plain  attire  of  the  young  Count’s  guests,  for  it  was  almost  immedi- 
ately followed  by  a look  of  complacency  at  her  own  brocade,  and  a 
comforting  reflection  that  she  herself  would  never  have  dreamed  of  in- 
viting persons  to  Belmont,  whose  dress  bespoke  their  humble  fortune, 
and  whose  gentle  birth  was  no  otherwise  indicated  than  by  their  grace 
of  person  and  elegance  of  demeanor. 

“ The  Signorina  Portia  will  doubtless  like  to  retire  early,  after  her 
journey  said  Gruido,  when  they  had  partaken  of  a supper  to  which 


22 


PORTIA  ; 


gayety  and  pleasant  conversation  had  given  the  air  of  a feast.  u You,  of 
course,  took  care  to  order  the  preparation  of  the  chamber  which  I ap- 
pointed for  the  lady’s  reception,  Madame  Ursula  ?” 

“ The  blue  chamber  has  been  ]3repared,  according  to  my  lord’s  wishes,” 
replied  the  stately  dame.  Then  turning  to  one  of  the  attendants,  she 
added — “ Rico,  bid  Lisetta  come  hither,  that  she  may  show  the  Signo- 
rina  to  her  apartment.” 

The  young  Count,  who  had  evidently  expected  that  Madame  Ursula 
herself  would  have  paid  his  guest  the  respect  of  attending  her  to  her 
room,  rose  hastily  from  his  seat,  saying  : — u The  Signorina’s  kind  heart 
will  excuse  Madame  from  accompanying  her ; years  claim  the  privilege 
of  rest.  I will  myself  show  you  and  your  sister  whereabout  the  rooms 
lie,  Bellario.” 

Thus  saying,  Guido  led  his  friends  out,  preceded  by  an  attendant 
bearing  a branch  of  wax-lights  ; leaving  Madame  Ursula  with  the  vexa- 
tious consciousness  that  she  had  been  the  means  of  heightening  the  honor 
of  Portia’s  escort,  while  her  sense  of  propriety  was  outraged  by  the 
young  Count  wilfully  playing  groom  of  the  chambers  to  guests  of  such 
evidently  humble  rank — one  of  them  a female  too  ! 

Her  discomfiture  vented  itself  in  a shriller  hem  than  usual,  that 
quavered  down  into  a groan,  as  she  heard  the  gay  voices  of  the  trio 
echoing  along  the  gallery  that  led  from  the  saloon  where  she  sat. 

u That  ungovernable  young  man  will  be  more  wild  than  ever,  now  he 
has  those  two  foolish  young  persons  to  abet  him  in  his  ridiculous  sallies 
of  mirth,”  muttered  the  dame,  as  she  sat  starchedly  in  her  chair,  still  at 
the  supper-table.  “ Yery  sad,  very  sad,”  added  she,  helping  herself  to  a 
bumper  of  Lachryma  Christi ; C(  and  the  worst  of  these  thoughtless  gig- 
glers, who  chatter  and  laugh  the  whole  of  meal-time,  is,  that  they  totally 
neglect  the  duties  of  the  table,  and  forget  to  see  that  one  has  one’s  glass 
filled  as  often  as  needful.  The  Count  never  perceived  that  I wished  for 
more  Montepulciano  to-night  at  supper ; I may  as  well  take  some  now, 
it  is  my  favorite  wine.  Ah,  very  sad,  very  sad  !”  repeated  she,  touching 
the  back  of  her  chair  with  her  perpendicular  spine,  which  was  the  nearest 
approach  to  lounging  in  which  she  ever  permitted  herself  to  indulge. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


23 


t£  Sad  indeed  !”  she  ejaculated  once  more  with  a virtuous  sigh,  as  she  set 
down  the  second  empty  glass,  and  looked  again  reprehensively  towards 
the  door  through  which  the  young  Count  and  his  friends  had  disappeared. 

This  kind  of  tacit  superintendence  and  mute  reproof  maintained  by 
Madame  Ursula,  during  the  visit  of  the  young  Count’s  guests,  possessed 
a double  advantage ; it  solaced  her  own  conscientious  notions  of  duen- 
naship,  and  nowise  interfered  with  the  enjoyment  of  the  young  people. 

Never  had  holiday  been  so  full  of  delight  for  Guido  as  the  present 
one ; never  had  the  period  of  vacation  been  so  thoroughly  enjoyed,  or 
appeared  to  fleet  away  so  rapidly.  To  the  known  and  valued  charms 
of  Bellario’s  society,  were  now  added  the  excitement  and  joy  of  each  day 
discovering  those  contained  in  the  character  and  person  of  his  friend’s 
sister.  To  mark  her  artless  unspoiled  simplicity,  her  native  good  sense, 
her  warmth  of  heart,  her  modest  deference  to  her  brother’s  opinions,  her 
high  appreciation  of  his  merits,  her  maidenly  gentleness,  yet  unaffected 
ease,  all  united  to  a face  and  person  of  extreme  beauty,  now  formed  a 
daily  source  of  study  to  the  young  nobleman,  as  new  as  it  was  interest- 
ing. Each  unfolded  page  of  Portia’s  mind  revealed  fresh  wonders ; he 
gazed  on  the  attractive  volume,  and  perused  every  lineament  of  this  fair 
book,  until  its  varied  excellences  seemed  to  comprise  all  the  intelligence, 
all  the  fascination  of  his  entire  previous  reading.  What  science  could 
vie  with  a knowledge  of  those  gentle  thoughts  ? What  learning  outweigh 
the  speaking  earnestness  of  those  persuasive  eyes?  What  scholastic 
arguments  exceed  in  eloquence  the  music  of  that  soft  voice?  What 
erudition  could  exert  so  refining  an  influence  as  one  of  those  ajjpealing 
smiles  ? Or  what  store  of  acquirement  be  worthy  of  so  zealous  a toil 
and  confer  so  glorious  an  empire,  as  the  gain  of  that  tender  heart? 
There  was  witchcraft  in  the  present  subject  of  the  young  student’s  con- 
templations, which  seemed  to  absorb  him  wholly,  and  to  cast  into  com- 
parative disregard  all  other  study,  past  or  to  come.  He  was  like  a man 
suddenly  impressed  with  the  belief  that  he  has  discovered  a clue  to  the 
secret  of  transmuting  metals  ; the  absorbing  pursuit  withdraws  him  from 
all  others,  , and  henceforth  alchemy  is  his  engrossing  thought,  his  sole 


24 


PORTIA  ; 


With  characteristic  ardor  did  Guido  di  Belmonte  give  himself  up  to 
the  magic  that  enthralled  him ; and  the  only  discretion  his  enthusiasm 
knew,  was  in  the  refraining  from  any  overt  expression  of  his  feelings, 
lest  their  too  early  or  too  eager  avowal  should  dissolve  the  spell.  He 
would  not  risk  seeing  the  present  ingenuous  ease  of  her  manner  ex- 
changed for  conscious  timidity.  Portia  now  treated  him  as  the  intimate 
and  cherished  friend  of  her  brother,  and  in  that  character,  almost  with 
the  freedom  and  unrestraint  of  a second  brother  ; so  Guido  was  well 
contented  for  the  present  to  enjoy  all  the  charm  of  frank  communion 
which  such  a mode  of  treatment  established  between  them..  As  a third 
in  this  pleasant  friendship,  therefore,  the  young  girl  joined  in  ail  their 
rambles  through  the  park,  visited  their  favorite  haunts,  neheld  their 
most  admired  views,  lingered  in  their  choicest  nooks  and  recesses,  and 
not  only  accompanied  them  in  their  excursions,  but  showed  by  her  active 
sympathy  and  earnest  intelligence,  that  she  enjoyed  their  conversation, 
shared  in  their  aspirations,  and  partook  of  their  enthusiasm.  While 
the  presence  of  Portia  thus  doubled  and  trebled  all  the  previous  delight 
that  the  two  students  had  derived  from  these  scenes,  she  herself  tasted 
a pleasure  she  had  never  before  known,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
this  hitherto  solitary  young  creature  might  be  said  to  learn  the  true 
happiness  of  existence.  She  had  till  lately  lived  in  complete  Seclusion 
beneath  her  sole  suriving  parent’s  roof  at  Yerona ; and  it  was  only  since 
the  recent  period  of  their  father’s  death,  that  Bellario  had  brought  her 
to  Padua  to  share  his  humble  dwelling. 

Day  after  day  the  three  friends  wandered  amid  the  woods  and  lawns 
of  Belmont ; and  unwitting  time  crept  on. 

One  afternoon  they  had  set  forth  to  visit  some  ruins  on  a beautiful 
spot  at  the  extreme  verge  of  the  estate,  and  the  distance  being  farther 
than  Guido  had  estimated,  in  his  eagerness  to  take  his  friends  thither, 
it  came,  that,  on  returning  homeward,  the  shades  of  evening  overtook 
them,  ere  they  reached  even  the  avenue  that  led  to  the  house.  The  sud- 
den darkness  that  succeeds  to  day,  beneath  an  Italian  sky,  where  there 
is  short  interval  of  deepening  twilight,  prevented  the  two  young  men 
from  noting  the  palor  that  stole  over  the  cheek  of  their  companion,  and 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


25 


betrayed  the  fatigue  that  so  long  a walk  had  occasioned  to  a frame  less 
calculated  for  exertion  than  theirs.  Her  bravery  of  heart,  and  ambi- 
tion to  prove  herself  a not  unfitting  companion,  as  well  as  a dread  of 
the  implied  reproach  to  them  if  they  discovered  her  fatigue,  made  her 
anxiously  endeavor  to  conceal  her  lassitude  by  an  effort  to  maintain  her 
share  in  the  animated  conversation,  which  was  as  usual  going  on  be- 
tween them ; but  at  length  she  involuntarily  yielded  to  an  overwhelm- 
ing sense  of  weariness,  and  permitted  herself  to  lapse  into  silence.  Sud- 
denly this  was  observed  by  Guido,  who  interrupted  himself  with  an 
abrupt  exclamation  of  self-reproach  at  the  want  of  thought  which  had 
thus  subjected  his  fair  guest  to  so  undue  an  exertion. 

“We  have  been  very  thoughtless,  I fear,  Bellario  said  he;  “or 
rather  I have  been  culpably  selfish  to  urge  an  expedition  so  far  too  long 
for  her  ! No  time  allowed  for  repose,  either  ! We  were  seated  scarcely 
half  an  hour  among  the  ruins  ! So  long  since  our  early  meal,  too  ! I 
neglected  to  bid  Madame  Ursula  provide  us  with  refreshment,  though  I 
ought  to  have  known  we  should  be  detained  beyond  our  usual  hour  of 
return  ! Unpardonable  folly  ! You  are  ill,  carina  ! You  are  pale,  you 
tremble  !” 

The  moon  had  now  risen,  and  revealed  to  the  young  Count  the  gen- 
tle white  face  that  leaned  for  a few  moments  against  Bellario’s  shoulder ; 
but  her  brother’s  affectionate  support,  and  cheering  words  of  encour- 
agement, with,  still  more,  the  torrent  of  reproaches  which  Guido  con- 
tinued to  pour  forth  upon  his  own  heedlessness,  enabled  her  to  rally, 
and  she  assured  them  she  was  quite  recovered,  and  equal  to  proceed. 

“ There  is  only  the  avenue  to  pass,  and  the  terrace,  and  then  you 
will  have  thorough  rest,  cara  mia,”  said  her  brother ; “ you  shall  have 
the  couch  wheeled  over  to  the  supper-table,  Guido  and  I will  let  you 
queen  it  as  much  as  you  please,  the  whole  evening.  Come,  lean  well 
upon  my  arm,  and  we  shall  soon  reach  Belmont !” 

“ Lean  upon  mine  too  ; we  will  support  you  between  us,”  said  Guido : 
and  thus  linked  in  kindliness,  the  three  friends  passed  together  beneath 
the  shadow  of  the  stately  trees  that  formed  the  avenue  to  Belmont. 

They  had  often  walked  arm-in-arm  thus  before,  Portia  between  her 


26 


PORTIA  ; 


brother  and  his  friend,  during  their  wanderings  through  the  grounds ; 
and  yet  how  was  it,  that  now,  the  familiarity  and  closeness  of  the 
proximity  which  it  occasioned  between  them,  struck  her  with  a signi- 
ficance which  it  had  never  assumed  before?  Was  it  that  the  low  soft 
tones  of  Guido’s  voice,  which  only  at  intervals  interrupted  the  cheerful 
strain  of  the  remarks  with  which  Bellario  sought  to  divert  her,  ad- 
dressed her  with  more  tender  solicitude  than  usual?  Was  it  that  the 
arm  of  Guido,  upon  which  her’s  rested,  occasionally  pressed  the  hand  it 
sustained,  against  a heart  that  throbbed  in  unison  with  the  tenderness 
of  the  speaker’s  tone,  and  gave  eloquent  meaning  to  his  few  murmured 
words?  Was  it  that  though  the  deep  shadow  of  the  over-arching  trees 
permitted  her  not  to  see  his  eyes,  yet  she  felt  those  eyes  to  be  bent  upon 
her,  as  if  they  would  fain  pierce  the  gloom,  and  ascertain  that  the  health- 
ful color  of  her  cheek  was  restored  ? 

Certain  it  is,  that  her  recent  pallor  was  now  replaced  by  a rich  car- 
nation hue  ; as  certain  that  her  heart  had  learnt  responsive  throbs  from 
the  one  which  vibrated  against  her  hand;  and  still,  as  certain  that  the 
languor  of  her  frame  was  forgotten  in  the  delicious  thrill  which  crept 
over  her  senses.  It  seemed  that  she  could  have  walked  on  ever,  through 
that  dim  avenue,  as  if  in  a voluptuous  dream,  gliding  onward  without 
action  or  volition. 

And  thus  they  reached  the  end  of  the  avenue ; and  there,  on  the 
marble  terrace,  in  the  broad  clear  moonlight,  stood  the  stiff  figure  of 
Madame  Ursula,  willing  to  show  the  young  people,  by  her  coming  thus 
far  to  meet  them,  that  they  had  considerably  outstaid  their  usual  period 
of  return. 

The  length  of  time  which  had  elapsed  since  the  due  hour  of  supper, 
and  the  protracted  sufferings  of  her  importunate  appetite,  had  in  all  pro- 
bability tended  to  sharpen  her  habitual  acerbity,  and  to  exasperate  the 
dame’s  rigid  observance  of  etiquette  ; for  she  no  sooner  beheld  Portia  ap- 
proach thus  supported,  than  she  cast  a piercing  glance  of  reproof  upon 
the  fair  arm  that  hung  with  such  unseemly  confidence  upon  the  young 
Count’s,  and  hemmed  so  piercingly,  that  the  terrace  rang,  as  if  a night- 
owl  had  suddenly  shrieked. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


27 


The  glance  and  the  hem  awakened  the  young  girl  from  the  trance  in 
which  her  senses  had  been  steeped,  and  she  involuntarily  quitted  her 
hold  of  Guido’s  arm,  and  clung  solely  to  that  of  her  brother ; while  the 
young  Count,  biting  his  lip,  hastily  seized  the  pointed  elbow  of  Madame 
Ursula,  and  placing  Portia’s  hand  upon  the  stately  dame’s  arm,  exclaim- 
ed : — “ Ay,  good  Ursula  ; you  assist  the  Signorina  into  the  house,  while 
I hasten  to  the  saloon,  and  arrange  the  couch  for  her.  We  have  over- 
tired her  with  too  long  a walk.”  So  saying,  he  sprang  through  one  of 
the  windows  that  opened  on  the  terrace,  and  bade  them  follow  at  a pace 
suited  to  Portia’s  fatigue. 

In  their  subsequent  rambles,  Guido  found  that  by  some  strange 
chance,  their  old  mode  of  progression  was  never  resumed.  They  walked 
arm-in-arm,  it  is  true,  as  they  strolled  through  the  grounds,  or  along  the 
avenue ; but  it  so  happened  that  the  young  Count  could  never  contrive 
to  have  Portia  between  her  brother  and  himself.  She  invariably  pos- 
sessed herself  of  that  arm  of  Bellario  which  was  on  the  side  farthest 
from  Guido ; and  though  he  at  first  endeavored  to  frustrate  this  arrange- 
ment, yet  when  he  found  himself  more  than  once  foiled  in  his  attempt 
to  return  to  their  old  position,  and  regain  her  arm  within  his,  he  wanted 
courage  to  insist  upon  a point  from  which  she  seemed  averse. 

His  want  of  courage  arose  from  a doubt.  He  could  not  resolve  the 
question  he  frequently  asked  himself ; whether  Portia  herself  shrank 
from  a renewed  avowal  of  that  tenderness  which  his  manner  had  be- 
trayed on  the  evening  when  she  had  last  permitted  her  arm  to  rest  upon 
his,  or  whether  it  was  merely  a confused  consciousness  of  Madame  Ur- 
sula’s rebuking  glance,  and  the  implied  censure  it  conveyed,  that  caused 
the  timid  girl  to  withdraw  from  this  sweet  familiar  contact. 

When  he  was  inclined  to  attribute  the  change  to  this  latter  cause,  he 
could  scarcely  forbear  visiting  upon  the  stiff  dame  the  chagrin  and  morti- 
fication he  felt,  and  putting  an  end  to  it  at  once  by  a candid  avowal  of 
his  love ; but  when  he  fancied  that  it  ar~se  from  Portia’s  own  coldness 
to  his  suit,  and  from  an  anxiety  on  her  part  to  extinguish  hope  on  his, 
without  a more  explicit  declaration  of  their  mutual  feelings,  which  might 
only  serve  to  disturb  the  serenity  of  the  friendship  which  now  united 


28 


PORTIA  ; 


the  three,  he  felt  his  courage  fail,  and  he  submitted  to  see  her  maintain 
her  station  on  the  other  side  of  her  brother. 

One  morning  they  were  threading  the  intricacies  of  a neighboring 
wood,  where,  deep  in  its  recesses,  a briery  dell  led  to  the  foot  of  a water- 
fall. The  inequality  of  the  path  they  were  pursuing,  made  the  offer  of 
his  aid  but  a mere  common  courtesy,  yet  she  evaded  his  proffered  arm, 
though  tacitly,  and  as  if  not  perceiving  his  intention,  in  the  eagerness 
of  conversation.  Even  when  Bellario  interrupted  himself  to  say: — 
You  had  better  take  Guido’s  arm  as  well  as  mine,  Portia;  you  will 
stumble,  if  you  do  not,  this  path  is  so  rugged  and  steep,”  she  still  paid 
no  attention  to  the  proposal,  but  chatted  on  as  before. 

So  marked  a rejection,  could  scarcely  pass  unnoticed ; and  Guido  in 
a half-hurt  tone  said  : — “ Your  sister  is  resolved  to  owe  assistance  to  none 
but  a brother’s  care.” 

He  had  no  sooner  given  way  to  this  momentary  pique,  than  he  re- 
pented ; but  he  could  not  judge  of  the  effect  his  effusion  might  have 
upon  Portia,  as  her  downcast  eyes  and  averted  countenance  were  par- 
tially hidden  from  him  by  Bellario,  who  was  again  between  them.  As 
for  the  latter,  he  did  not  perceive  the  vexation  which  embittered  his 
friend’s  tone,  and  he  merely  simply  replied  : — ■“  She  well  knows  how  en- 
tirely she  may  trust  that  care,  and  with  what  fondness  it  will  be  devoted 
to  her  through  life.” 

The  sister  fov  an  instant  raised  her  loving  eyes  to  meet  those  of  the 
brother,  which  were  bent  proudly  upon  the  beautiful  young  creature  be- 
side him  ; and  Guido,  as  he  looked  upon  them,  felt  as  if  the  love  that 
aspired  to  assert  its  superior  claim  to  that  which  existed  between  the 
two  orphans,  must  needs  be  a presumption  foredoomed  to  disappoint- 
ment. 

The  profound  feeling  of  regret  and  desolation  of  spirit  into  which 
such  a reflection  plunged  the  young  Count,  revealed  to  himself  how  far 
he  had  permitted  his  heart  to  indulge  the  hope  of  one  day  inducing 
Portia  to  own  a preference  even  paramount  to  her  affection  for  Bellario ; 
and  he  returned  but  mechanical  answers  to  the  animated  dissertation 
upon  some  favorite  topic,  in  which  his  friend  was  indulging.  While  the 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


*29 


young  law  student  eagerly  pursued  his  theme,  he  perceived  not  the 
silence  of  his  companions,  and  they  emerged  from  the  wood  on  their 
return,  and  had  reached  the  avenue,  without  an  idea  having  crossed  his 
mind,  that  he  had  for  some  time  been  the  sole  speaker. 

At  length  Guido  was  roused  from  his  reverie,  by  a pause  in  his 
friend’s  speech,  and  by  some  remark  that  fell  from  him  a moment  after, 
touching  the  superlative  beauty  of  Belmont,  and  his  regret  that  this  de- 
licious holiday  was  drawing  to  a close.  “ But  three  days  more,”  added 
he,  u and  we  must  return  to  Padua ; to  relinquish  the  delights  of  Bel- 
mont, for  study,  college  discipline,  and  recluse  assiduity.  Farewell, 
beautiful  Belmont !” 

At  this  instant,  Guido’s  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a deep  sigh  from 
Portia’s  lips,  as  she  murmured  in  echo  of  her  brother’s  words “ Fare- 
well, beautiful  Belmont,  where  we  have  all  been  so  happy  !” 

The  sigh,  the  mournful  cadence  of  the  voice,  gave  the  young  Count 
the  encouragement  that  lovers  invariably  gather  from  a betrayal  of  emo~ 
tion  in  the  object  beloved.  Strength  strangely  generated  of  weakness  ! 
A look,  too,  a timid,  hasty,  involuntary  look,  met  his  eyes  for  one  second, 
as  they  wandered  for  the  hundredth  time  that  morning  towards  the  gen- 
tle face  that  had  still  bent  droopingly  on  the  other  side  of  Bellario, 
despite  of  all  his  vigilant  endeavors  to  win  a single  responsive  glance. 

Now,  however,  in  the  look  that  met  his,  although  it  flashed  upon 
him  but  instantaneously,  he  read  a mute  confession  as  ample  as  it  was 
brief,  as  impassioned  as  it  was  modest,  as  unreserved  as  it  was  involuntary, 
and  the  blissful  conviction  that  it  carried  in  a tumultuous  rush  to  his  heart, 
sprang  into  words  with  all  the  impetuosity  of  his  nature: — “We  must 
not  part ! We  will  never  leave  Belmont!  Give  her  to  me,  Bellario ! 
Give  me  your  sister  for  my  wife  !” 

The  young  law-student  paused  in  utter  amazement.  It  seemed  as  if 
such  an  idea  as  the  possibility  of  love  growing  out  of  friendship,  had 
never  suggested  itself  to  his  mind.  He  stood  still,  regarding  them  both 
with  an  air  of  perplexity  that  might  have  amused  Guido  upon  any  other 
occasion.  At  present,  however,  he  did  not  even  see  it ; his  whole  soul 
was  in  his  eyes,  and  they  were  riveted  upon  Portia  only,  who  remained 
rooted  to  the  spot,  and  covered  with  innocent  blushes. 


30 


PORTIA  ; 


At  length  Bellario  said,  smiling,  as  he  beheld  the  truth  in  that  crim- 
son cheek  : — “ What  does  my  sister  herself  say  ?” 

His  sister  said  nothing ; but  after  a moment’s  pause,  she  drew  her 
hand  softly  from  the  brotherly  arm  to  which  she  had  hitherto  clung,  and 
creeping  round  to  his  other  side,  she  again  placed  one  arm  within  his, 
and  held  forth  the  other  with  a faltering  motion,  as  if  it  sought  to  re- 
sume its  former  resting-place  upon  that  of  Guido.  The  young  Count 
needed  no  words  to  bid  him  construe  aright  her  gentle  action,  so  eloquent 
in  its  confiding  sweetness,  but  as  he  caught  the  bounteous  hand  with 
transport  to  his  lips,  he  repeated ; — u What  does  fairest  Portia  say  ? 
Will  she  give  herself  to  me  ?” 

u Her  brother  shall  answer  for  her  said  Bellario.  u My  own  affec- 
tion for  the  friend  of  my  heart  teaches  me  how  surely  his  noble  quali- 
ties have  won  my  Portia’s  love ; and  I ought  perhaps  to  rejoice  that  an 
earlier  suspicion  of  the  truth  did  not  awaken  scruples  which  false  deli- 
cacy might  have  suggested.  Had  I sooner  surmised  this,  I might  have 
thought  it  due  to  our  own  honor  to  avoid  the  seeming  attempt  to  secure 
an  alliance  so  far  above  our  station ; but  Portia’s  heart  is  now  yours, 
and  knowing  (though  but  lately,  in  its  full  extent)  the  value  of  the 
treasure  you  have  gained,  no  unworthy  pride  of  mine  shall  withhold  it 
from  your  possession.  To  show  you  how  my  friend’s  generosity,  and 
my  sister’s  simple  integrity  of  mind,  have  wrought  their  due  effect  in 
eradicating  my  former  prejudices,  I will  not  say  one  word  of  the  por- 
tionless condition  of  the  bride  you  have  chosen.  I resign  my  Portia 
to  your  care,  with  the  conviction  that  you  will  cherish  her  with  no  less 
regard  than  had  she  brought  you  millions  for  her  dower ; and  for  her,  I 
place  her  in  your  arms,  with  as  proud  a joy,  as  if  she  were  descended 
from  a throne.” 

As  Bellario  concluded,  he  gently  withdrew  the  trembling  palm  that 
clung  to  him,  and  placing  it  in  that  of  his  friend,  who  still  retained  the 
one  she  had  first  bestowed  fast  locked  in  his  other  hand,  he  left  them 
together,  that  they  might  tell  each  other  their  full  hearts. 

The  fond  brother  wandered  apart  for  awhile,  that,  in  devout  thanks- 
giving, he  might  unburthen  his  own  of  the  tide  of  gratitude  that 
swelled  it,  for  the  blissful  lot  which  was  thus  secured  to  his  orphan 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


31 


sister,  and  for  the  increased  happiness  this  union  promised,  not  only,  to 
his  beloved  friend,  but  to  them  all.  After  some  time  spent  thus  in 
grateful  reflection,  he  was  ascending  the  terrace  by  another  approach 
than  the  flight  of  steps  leading  from  the  avenue,  in  order  that  he  might 
still  leave  the  lovers  undisturbed,  when  he  met  Madame  Ursula,  just  as 
she  was  emerging  from  one  of  the  windows  that  opened  down  to  the 
ground  on  to  the  terrace. 

“ Alone,  Signor  Bellario  ! Where  is  your  sister  ? Where  is  Count 
Guido?”  exclaimed  the  dame,  aghast  at  this  instance  of  what  she 
thought  the  young  law-student’s  plebeian  ignorance  of  propriety. 
“ Misericordia,  I think  I see  them  yonder  in  the  avenue  together  ! Is 
it  possible  you  can  permit Santa  Diana  ! If  my  eyes  do  not  de- 

ceive me,  his  arm  is  round  her  waist  ! Santissima  Madonna ! He 
stoops  his  face  towards  her’s — I do  believe ” 

She  paused  and  gasped. 

“ I should  not  wonder,”  said  Bellario  with  malicious  calmness,  “ if 
Guido  is  actually  giving  my  sister  a kiss.” 

“ Hold,  Signor!”  shrieked  the  Duenna,  “ don’t  utter  the  filthy 
word  !”  So  saying,  she  hurried  down  the  marble  steps  with  all  the 
speed  the  stiffness  of  her  dignity  would  allow,  and  bustled  along  the 
avenue  like  an  enraged  goose,  fluttering,  and  sputtering,  and  screaming. 

When  she  reached  the  lovers,  who,  seeing  and  hearing  this  discord- 
ant approach,  came  towards  her,  to  discover  its  meaning,  she  could 
scarcely  articulate  a word,  but  panted  out : — “ I am  surprised,  Signor- 

ina,  that ” “ Stay,  Madame  Ursula interrupted  Guido,  smiling. 

“ Give  me  leave  to  surprise  you  still  more,  by  informing  you  that  hence- 
forth you  are  to  address  this  lady  as  Countess  di  Belmonte.” 

The  return  to  Padua  was  of  course  deferred  ; Bellario  remaining  at 
Belmont  to  behold  the  happiness  of  his  friend  and  sister  confirmed  in 
marriage.  But  after  the  wedding,  the  young  law-student  pleaded  his 
anxiety  to  resume  those  labors  that  were  to  insure  him  future  inde- 
pendence and  renown. 

When  the  young  Count  would  fain  have  urged  him  to  stay  with 
them  ever,  saying  how  little  need  there  was  now  to  endure  the  pain  of 


32 


PORTIA  ; 


separation,  since  his  possessions  sufficed  for  a purse  in  common  between 
them,  Bellario  ingenuously  acknowledged  that  even  could  the  generosity 
of  his  friend  reconcile  him  to  such  a proposal,  his  own  ambition  to 
create  for  himself  a name  among  the  eminent  lawyers  of  his  country, 
would  not  permit  him  to  exchange  so  proud  a hope  for  a life  of  inaction 
and  inutility. 

Guido  yielded  to  this  argument  with  involuntary  approval  and 
esteem,  that  counterbalanced  the  regret  he  felt  in  parting  with  his  old 
fellow-student ; and  the  two  friends  separated  with  the  understanding 
that  all  Bellario’s  vacation-time  was  in  future  to  be  devoted  to  Belmont. 

Y ears  thus  happily  rolled  on.  The  young  student  spent  his  time  in 
alternate  labor  at  learned  Padua,  and  relaxation  at  lovely  Belmont ; 
until  he  rose  to  the  attainment  of  the  position  in  society,  which  had  so 
long  been  the  object  of  his  ambition.  While  still  young,  he  was  old  in 
fame  and  reputed  ability  ; and  few  lawyers  of  the  time  ranked  in  pub- 
lic estimation  with  the  learned  Doctor  Bellario. 

Count  Guido  and  his  fair  wife  dwelt  in  uninterrupted  happiness  on 
their  estate,  carrying  out  the  youthful  visions  of  the  former,  by  a life  of 
peaceful  virtue  and  benevolent  utility.  The  only  drawback  to  their 
felicity,  was  their  remaining  unblessed  by  offspring ; but  after  they  had 
been  married  twelve  years,  and  had  relinquished  all  hope  of  beholding  a 
child  of  their  own,  Portia  confided  to  her  husband  the  prospect  she  had 
of  presenting  him  with  an  heir. 

When  Bellario  next  visited  Belmont,  he  was  apprised  by  the  happy 
parents  of  their  new  cause  of  joy,  and  he,  with  them,  awaited  the  advent 
of  the  expected  stranger  with  scarcely  less  delight  than  their  own.  He 
did  not  fail  to  rally  his  sister  on  the  confirmed  manner  with  which  she 
always  spoke  of  the  expected  little  one  as  a boy ; and  bade  her  remem- 
ber. that  as  Guido  and  himself  would  both  prefer  to  possess  a miniature 
copy  of  herself,  there  were  two  to  one  in  favor  of  the  accomplishment 
of  their  wish  instead  of  hers.  In  the  midst  of  their  gay  anticipations, 
came  an  express  from  Padua  to  summon  Bellario  thither,  as  his  pre- 
sence was  required  during  the  decision  of  an  important  case  that  was 
about  to  be  tried. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


33 


As  lie  mounted  his  horse  to  depart,  he  waved  his  hand  to  Guido  and 
Portia,  who  stood  on  the  terrace  to  bid  him  farewell.  “ God  bless  you, 
my  sister  !”  he  cried.  “No  son,  mind  ! Give  Belmont  an  heiress,  as 
you  value  my  brotherly  love  !” 

He  rode  off  hastily,  lest  he  might  not  be  able  to  preserve  the  cheer- 
ful tone  he  had  assumed  in  addressing  her ; for  he  felt  reluctant  to  quit 
this  beloved  sister  ere  her  hour  of  peril  had  passed.  Still,  no  forebod- 
ing whispered  that  the  farewell  had  been  for  ever ; no  thought  that  he 
had  looked  upon  her  face  for  the  last  time ; and  he  was  totally  unpre- 
pared for  the  blow  that  smote  him  some  days  after,  in  receiving  this 
terrible  letter 

u Our  angel  is  now  an  angel  indeed.  Come  and  behold  what  lives  to 
prove  her  earthly  sojourn.  An  infant  Portia  is  all  that  is  left  of  our 
lost  one,  whose  image  alone  rests  in  the  heart  of  her  miserable  husband, 

“ The  most  unhappy 

“ Guido.” 

The  almost  equally-afflicted  Bellario  lost  no  time  in  hastening  to  his 
friend ; but  when  he  arrived  at  Belmont,  he  found  even  the  sad  hope  of 
bringing  comfort  by  his  presence  was  denied.  As  Madame  Ursula 
placed  the  infant  Portia  in  his  arms,  she  informed  him  that  since  the 
hour  when  the  remains  of  the  Countess  had  been  consigned  to  the 
grave,  her  unhappy  husband  had  been  seen  by  no  one.  He  seemed 
suddenly  +o  have  vanished  from  the  face  of  the  earth  with  her  whom  he 
mourned.  How  or  when  he  had  disappeared  was  a mystery,  and  Bel- 
lario could  hardly  doubt  that  he  had  for  ever  lost  a brother  as  well  as  a 
sister.  The  last  person  who  had  beheld  him,  was  his  faithful  attendant, 
Balthazar,  who  told  Bellario,  that  on  the  evening  of  his  lady’s  funeral, 
he  was  crossed  in  the  avenue  by  a dark  figure,  which  had  at  first  startled 
him  with  its  muffled  spectral  appearance ; but  that  on  taking  courage  to 
look  at  it  again,  he  was  almost  convinced  it  was  his  poor  master.  This 
belief  made  him  turn,  and  follow  it ; but  it  fled  faster  than  he  could 
pursue,  and  soon  vanished  entirely  among  the  trees  in  the  distance. 

There  was  one  slight  circumstance,  which  alone  permitted  Bellario 


34 


PORTIA  ; 


to  hope  that  his  friend  had  not  ‘madly  destroyed  himself.  In  Guido’s 
study,  he  found  a fragment  of  a paper,  apparently  addressed  to  himself, 
though  it  was  incoherent,  abrupt,  and  written  in  evident  distraction. 

* # # u gpe  win  ke  y0ur  care?  p know>  All  j pave  js  ^erg — 

your  justice  and  tenderness  will  be  her  best  safeguard — should  I ever 
return,  she  may ” # # # # 

It  was  on  these  few  last  words,  that  Bellario  founded  his  hope. 
They  were  all  that  remained  to  dispel  his  apprehensions  that  his  infant 
charge  might  be  wholly  orphaned ; and  he  took  a solemn  vow  as  he  bent 
over  the  sleeping  babe,  that  he  would  devote  himself  to  her  welfare,  in 
the  fervent  trust  that  he  might  one  day  be  permitted  to  replace  her  in 
the  arms  of  a living  father.  Meanwhile,  having  learned  of  Madame 
Ursula  in  as  explicit  terms  as  her  prudish  lips  could  muster,  that  a 
healthful  wet-nurse  had  been  provided  in  the  person  of  one  of  the  Bel- 
mont tenantry  ; and  having  ascertained  that  the  affairs  of  the  estate 
were  placed  in  an  advantageous  condition  for  the  future  benefit  of  the 
infant  heiress ; he  returned  to  the  duties  of  his  profession  at  Padua, 
until  such  time  as  she  could  profit  by  his  presence  and  immediate  super- 
intendence. 

Letters  from  Madame  Ursula  brought  him  continued  intelligence  of 
the  babe’s  thriving,  and  he  would  frequently  steal  a day  from  his  labors 
to  ride  over  to  Belmont,  that  he  might  indulge  himself  with  a sight  of 
the  child.  For  in  the  small  unformed  features,  and  diminutive  limbs, 
the  force  of  affection  taught  him  to  find  traces  of  his  lost  sister  and 
friend  ; in  the  mite  of  a nose,  and  the  wondering  eyes,  he  thought  he 
could  read  the  animation  and  intelligent  fire  of  Guido’s  expression;  in 
the  little  dimpled  hands,  he  fancied  h 3 discovered  the  slender  fingers  of 
Portia ; and  even  in  the  fair  golden  curls  of  the  little  one,  he  dreamed 
he  beheld  the  raven  tresses  of  her  mother.  So  whimsical  is  the  sweet 
blindness  of  love  ! Such  tricks  of  imagination  were  the  senses  of  the 
bachelor  lawyer  accustomed  to  play,  while,  spell-bound  by  loving  memo- 
ries, he  held  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  pored  over  its  baby  lineaments. 

Soon,  it  learned  to  know  the  face  that  hung  so  tenderly  over  its  own  ; 
and  almost  its  first  look  of  intelligence  was  given  to  him.  It  would 


THE  HEIRESS  OP  BELMONT. 


35 


grow  and  coo  in  answer  to  his  caresses ; it  would  learn  to  hold  up  its 
fairy  finger  while  hearkening  to  the  sound  of  his  horse’s  feet,  and  clap 
its  hands  when  it  saw  him  approach. 

Once,  as  he  was  galloping  up  the  avenue,  he  saw  the  nurse  and  her 
charge  playing  on  the  grass ; and  suddenly,  to  his  great  delight,  he  be- 
held the  little  creature  bundle  itself  up  from  its  squatting  position  on 
the  turf,  and  come  toddling  towards  him  ; it  had  learned  to  run  alone, 
since  his  last  visit ! 

Then — in  a visit  or  two  after  that  one — a new  pleasure ; the  child 
could  welcome  him  with  a few  prattling  words ; and  as  she  sat  on  his 
knee,  she  could  beguile  his  solitary  breakfast  with  her  pretty  voice,  a£d 
lisp  out  her  newly-mastered  phrases. 

In  the  course  of  some  months  more,  a period  of  vacation  occurred,  and 
the  bachelor-uncle  looked  forward  with  absolute  pleasure  to  the  thought 
of  spending  some  time  with  a mere  child ; the  grave  lawyer  had  learned 
to  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as  his  little  Portia.  She  was  now 
not  merely  the  child  of  his  sister  and  friend,  she  had  become  a joy  in 
herself. 

And  the  little  creature  repaid  his  love  with  a fondness  singularly 
intense  in  one  so  young.  She  seemed  to  have  inherited  her  father’s 
ardor  of  disposition,  with  much  of  her  mother’s  gentle  sweetness.  She 
never  tired  of  being  with  him ; and  even  showed  none  of  the  usual  rest- 
lessness of  children,  when  his  serious  occupations  demanded  his  atten- 
tion. She  would  sit  quietly  on  the  ground,  amusing  herself  with  the 
pictures  or  toys  that  he  had  given  her ; and  seemed  to  be  aware  that  by 
silence  she  preserved  the  privilege  of  remaining  in  the  room  with  him. 
When  Madame  Ursula  would  appear  at  the  door  of  the  library,  where 
he  usually  sat,  and  offer  to  take  away  the  child  lest  she  should  disturb 
il  Signor  Dottore,  little  Portia  would  cast  beseeching  eyes  up  to  her 
uncle’s  face,  and  say  : — u I’ll  be  so  good,  if  you’ll  let  me  stay.”  And  she 
always  kept  her  word  ; sitting  sometimes  for  hours  on  the  floor,  and  only 
varying  her  position  by  creeping  like  a little  mouse  to  a low  drawer 
which  was  considered  hers,  where  her  toys  were  stored,  or  by 
kneeling  before  a chair  upon  which  she  might  range  her  pictures  side 
by  side. 


36 


PORTIA  : 


Once  Bellario  observed  her  put  her  finger  on  her  lip  and  glance 
timidly  towards  him,  as  she  checked  herself  in  some  little  nursery-tune 
which  she  was  unconsciously  beginning  to  murmur  to  herself.  u I mustn’t 
sing,”  he  heard  her  whisper.  “ Yes  you  may,  if  you  sing  very  softly,” 
said  her  uncle ; and  thenceforth  he  accustomed  himself  to  hear  the  little 
undersong  going  on  while  he  was  writing,  till  at  length,  had  it  ceased, 
he  would  have  well-nigh  missed  the  pretty  music  of  its  humming. 

But  these  hours  of  needful  stillness,  were  delightfully  compensated 
by  the  games  of  romps,  the  races  on  the  greensward  of  the  avenue,  the 
rides  on  the  shoulder,  and  the  scampers  on  horseback,  that  the  fond 
uncle  indulged  her  with,  when  he  had  concluded  his  day’s  avocations. 
Indeed,  it  is  a question  whether  the  indulgence  was  not  as  great  on  one 
side  as  the  other ; whether,  in  fact,  the  learned  man  did  not  as  fully 
enjoy  these  innocent  gambols  as  much  as  the  frolicsome  child  did.  To 
judge  by  the  facility  with  which  he  accommodated  himself  to  her  infantine 
ways,  the  unreserve  with  which  he  abandoned  himself  to  her  disposal, 
and  the  happy  ease  of  his  manner  while  devoting  himself  to  sport  with 
her,  this  companionship  was  now  his  chief  delight,  as  it  evidently  was 
hers. 

A look  more  bright  than  any  that  had  beamed  in  his  eyes  since  his 
sister’s  death,  would  dwell  there  now  as  he  tossed  her  baby-daughter 
high  in  his  arms  towards  the  ceiling  of  the  saloon,  and  watched  the  ecstasy 
with  which  she  found  herself  so  near  its  glittering  gilded  fret-work ; a 
gentle  smile  would  play  round  the  grave  lawyer’s  lips,  as  he  suffered 
himself  to  be  harnessed  and  driven  along  the  avenue  as  the  little  girl’s 
mimic  steed  ; but  some  of  their  happiest  times  of  all,  were  when  he 
placed  her  on  horseback  before  him,  and  rode  through  the  glades,  and 
shadowy  woodlands,  telling  her  many  a pleasant  tale  of  wonder  and 
delight.  Sometimes  the  learned  head,  so  well  stored  with  weighty  pre- 
cedents, that  directed  senates  with  its  judgment,  and  swayed  princes 
with  its  counsel,  would  rack  its  memory  for  fairy  legends  or  gay  stories 
for  the  sole  delight  of  a little  girl ; at  others,  the  lips  that  poured  forth 
eloquence  and  erudition  commanding  the  plaudits  of  his  fellow-men,  and 
influencing  the  destinies  of  the  human  race,  would  frame  simple  precepts 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


37 


of  goodness  and  loveliness  fitted  for  the  comprehension  of  the  fair-haired 
child  that  sat  upon  his  saddle-bow.  But  in  this  single,  childish  auditress, 
a world  of  sympathy,  intelligence,  and  sensibility  had  their  being,  which 
found  expression  in  the  absorbed  and  enchanted  gaze  with  which  she 
fixed  her  eyes  intently  on  his  face  while  he  spoke. 

A favorite  theme  with  them  both,  was  the  excellence  of  the  parents 
she  had  lost.  He  was  never  tired  of  telling,  or  she  of  hearing,  about 
the  beautiful  gentle  mother  who  was  now  an  angel  in  heaven ; who 
dwelt  in  the  clear  blue  sky,  and  watched  her  little  girl  when  the  stars 
were  shining,  and  the  moon  was  peeping  in  at  her  chamber-window, 
while  she  was  fast  asleep ; who  loved  to  see  her  little  Portia  good  and 
happy ; and  hoped  to  have  her  one  day  in  the  blue  and  glorious  heaven 
with  her.  And  then  he  told  her  of  the  kind  handsome  father  5 of  the 
loving  friend  he  had  been ; of  how  dear  they  had  been  to  each  other ; 
of  how  he  had  grieved  to  lose  the  beautiful  mother,  who  had  gone  to  be 
an  angel ; and  how,  in  impatience  that  he  could  not  yet  go  with  her  to 
be  one  also,  he  had  wandered  away  no  one  knew  whither,  but  might  per- 
haps one  day  return  to  see  his  little  Portia  if  she  continued  good  and 
gentle. 

And  then  the  child  would  put  up  her  rosy  mouth  for  a kiss,  and  tell 
her  uncle  she  “ meant  to  be  so  good — 0,  so  good — and  always  good.” 
And  then  hey  would  ride  home  cheerfully  and  happily ; and  patting 
the  horse’s  neck,  would  think  no  time  so  pleasant  as  that  spent  on  his 
back,  when  he  carried  them  far  and  wide  through  the  broad  domains  of 
Belmont. 

One  morning,  after  breakfast,  there  happened  to  be  fewer  law  papers 
than  usual  to  examine,  and  Beliario  told  his  little  Portia  that  if  she 
would  be  quite  quiet  for  an  hour,  he  would  then  be  ready  to  take  her  out 
for  a long,  long  ride  ; and  he  asked  Madame  Ursula  to  be  so  good  as  to 
let  them  have  a little  basket  with  something  nice  to  eat  while  they  were 
out,  in  case  they  were  away  some  hours. 

The  dame  made  a curtsey  of  acquiescence ; then  turning  to  the  child, 
she  added  4 Now,  Contessina,  come  with  me.” 

The  little  girl  arose,  and  followed  her  half-way  towards  the  door, 
then  stopned. 


38 


PORTIA  ; 


Madame  Ursula  looked  back,  and  seeing  the  fixed  attitude  in  which 
the  child  stood,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  frowned  heavily,  saying  : — ■ 
“ Did  you  hear  me  ? Come  !” 

Bellario  quietly  watched  this  scene,  though  his  head  was  bent  over 
his  papers ; and  he  observed  an  obstinate  inflexibility  take  possession  of 
the  little  girl’s  face  and  figure,  as  she  replied  : — •“  Not  unless  you  prom- 
ise that  I shall  come  back  in  time  for  the  ride.” 

“ I shall  promise  nothing.  Come  this  instant !”  said  Madame 
Ursula ; then,  glancing  at  Bellario,  and  seeing,  as  she  thought,  that 
he  was  absorbed  in  his  occupation,  she  added  in  a stern  low  tone : — 
66  Remember !” 

Portia’s  face  flashed  scarlet,  and  she  moved  forwards  a step  or  two  ; 
but  presently  she  stopped  again,  and  said: — “No,  if  you  beat  me,  I 
don’t  care ; I won’t  go  till  you  promise.” 

Bellario  was  just  going  to  exclaim  “ Beat !”  but  he  checked  him’ 
self,  resolved  to  satisfy  himself  further,  while  they  still  thought  them- 
selves unobserved. 

“ Promise  a chit  like  you,  indeed  ! A fine  pass  things  have  come  to, 
truly!”  exclaimed  Madame  Ursula.  “I  insist  upon  your  coming  to 
your  tasks,  when  I bid  you.” 

“ But  I’m  not  a chit — I’m  heiress  of  Belmont — Lisetta  told  me  so  , 
and  she  said  I needn’t  learn  my  letters  if  I didn’t  like — and  I don’t 
like.  Besides,  I want  to  ride  with  cugino  rnio ; and  I won’t  say  my 
letters  till  you  promise  I shall  have  done  in  time  to  come  back  for  my 
ride.  Nasty  letters  ! I hate  them.”  And  the  child  uttered  the  last 
words  with  flashing  eyes,  and  an  insolent  lip. 

Madame  Ursula  stalked  back,  and  seized  the  little  rebel  whom  her 
own  injudicious  unrelenting  had  created.  As  she  clutched  Portia’s 
wrist,  the  child  uttered  a piercing  scream  ; but  the  next  instant  she 
seemed  to  remember  her  promise  not  to  disturb  Bellario,  for  she  looked 
towards  him  hastily,  and  then,  checking  herself,  writhed  and  struggled 
mutely  in  the  housekeeper’s  grasp. 

Bellario  now  thought  it  .time  to  interfere.  “Madame  Ursula,”  said 
he,  “ why  do  you  wish  the  Contessina  Portia  to  go  with  you  ? May  she 
not  stay  here,  as  usual  ?” 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


39 


“ I need  hardly  tell  il  Signore  Bottore,”  replied  the  dame,”  “ that  it 
would  he  disgraceful  for  a young  lady  of  the  Contessina’s  distinguished 
station  to  he  brought  up  in  ignorance.  I have  therefore  thought  it  my 
duty  to  teach  her  her  letters,  that  she  may  one  day  know  how  to  read. 
I presume  so  illustrious  and  learned  a gentleman  as  yourself  knows  the 
importance  of  early  tuition  ?” 

“ But  did  I not  hear  something  about  £ heating,’  Madame  ? Surely 
that  is  not  a part  of  your  system  ?”  said  Bellario. 

“ Oh,  a birch-rod,  merely  hung  up  in  my  room  by  way  of  a threat, 
signor.  We  all  know  that  a threat  is  sometimes  as  effectual  as  a pun- 
ishment,” replied  she  ; “ and  the  Contessina’s  pride  makes  her  dread 
the  shame  of  a whipping,  as  much  as  the  rod  itself.” 

u Bo  you  know,  I am  not  a great  advocate  for  either  shame,  or  the 
rod,  Madame,  in  teaching.”  Bellario  saw  the  scarlet  mount  to  the 
child’s  brow  again,  at  the  mention  of  the  birch-rod ; but  he  saw  also  a 
look  of  triumph,  as  if  she  understood  that  Madame  was  being  rebuked 
instead  of  herself.  He  was  vexed  at  being  thus  compelled  to  discuss 
the  matter  in  her  presence  at  all,  but  as  it  was  hardly  to  be  avoided 
after  what  had  passed,  he  added : — ■“  If  you  please,  we  will  for  the 
present  allow  this  little  lady  to  go  on  in  her  ignorance.  She  will  one 
day  find  what  a pleasure  it  is  to  read,  and  will  wish  to  learn,  and  be 
grateful  to  those  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  teach  her.  Allow  me  to 
thank  you  for  that  which  you  have  already  taken,  Madame  Ursula;  al- 
though T request  you  will  indulge  me  by  letting  the  lessons  cease,  until 
Portia  is  wise  enough  to  wish  for  them  herself.” 

Madame  Ursula  curtsied  stiffly,  and  withdrew  ; muttering  to  herself 
that  the  illustrissime  Bottore  was  a fine  person,  forsooth,  to  be  a judge  ; 
when  he  did  not  know  how  to  manage  a little  child  better  than  by  letting 
her  have  her  own  way. 

The  ride  that  day  was  not  so  pleasant  as  usual.  Portia,  young  as 
she  was,  could  understand  that  what  had  made  her  uncle  ride  on  so 
thoughtfully  and  so  silently,  was  the  scene  that  had  taken  place  that 
morning.  After  peering  up  in  his  face  several  times  in  the  vain  hope  of 
meeting  the  fond  smile  that  generally  answered  her’s,  she  felt  the  rebuke 


40 


PORTIA  ; 


contained  in  that  sad  abstracted  look,  and  at  length  said : — ■“  Are  yon 
angry  with  me,  cugino  mio  ?” 

“ I am  sorry,  very  sorry,  that  my  little  Portia  was  so  naughty,  this 
morning ; I do  not  like  to  see  her  so  unlike  the  little  girl  I love.” 

“Til  say  my  letters,  if  you’ll  love  me  still;  I’ll  never  be  naughty 
about  reading  again.” 

“ It  was  not  your  naughtiness  about  saying  your  letters,  that  made 
me  sorry,  carina  ; it  was  to  see  my  little  girl  behave  so  rudely  to  Ma- 
dame — to  seek  her  look  so  insolent  and  proud — and  to  hear  her  talk  of 
being  heiress  of  Belmont,  as  a reason  for  not  learning  to  read.” 

“ Lisetta  said  so — she  said  I should  be  a great  lady  by  and  by,  and 
need  only  do  what  I like ; and  needn’t  take  any  trouble  to  learn.” 

“ Lisetta  should  have  told  you  that  a great  lady  would  never  like  to 
be  ignorant : that  you  would  be  more  to  be  pitied  if  you  were  a coun- 
tess who  did  not  know  how  to  read,  than  if  you  were  a poor  peasant ; 
and  that  the  heiress  of  Belmont  ought  to  be  gentle  and  kind,  not  wilful 
and  rude,  if  she  ever  expects  to  be  respected  and  obeyed  in  her  turn 
Besides,  though  you  will  one  day  be  lady  of  Belmont,  you  are  now  only 
a poor  little  weak  child,  who  ought  to  be  very  thankful  and  obedient  to 
those  who  are  so  good  as  to  take  care  of  you,  and  do  many  things  for 
you  which  you  are  not  able  to  do  for  yourself.” 

The  child  laid  her  head  meekly  against  his  breast,  and- whispered 
“ I’ll  try  and  be  good,  if  cugino  will  love  me.”  And  when  his  arms 
softly  pressed  round  her,  she  felt  that  she  was  forgiven  ; and  they  could 
again  enjoy  the  beauty  of  the  ride,  and  laugh,  and  chat,  as  gaily  and 
happily  as  ever. 

Next  morning  after  breakfast,  the  papers  and  law-books  were  again 
speedily  despatched,  and  Portia  started  up  from  her  toys,  expecting  to 
be  summoned  for  a ride ; but  she  saw  her  uncle  take  down  a book  from 
one  of  the  shelves  of  the  library  (which  was  the  room  in  which  they 
usually  sat),  and  placing  it  upon  a low  desk  by  the  side  of  his  easy-ehair, 
he  lolled  back,  and  began  to  read. 

Now  Portia,  though  so  young  a child,  had  already  found  out  the  dif- 
ference between  business-reading  and  pleasure-reading ; for  she  knew 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


41 


that  when  her  uncle  was  leaning  oyer  those  yellow  papers,  crackling 
parchments,  and  plain-looking  hooks,  while  his  eyes  were  intently  fixed, 
and  his  pen  occasionally  dipped  in  the  ink,  and  he  wrote  a few  words, 
and  his  lips  looked  grave  and  unmoved, — he  was  on  no  account  to  he 
disturbed,  and  that  was  the  time  for  her  to  remain  perfectly  still ; but 
when  she  saw  him  draw  the  reading-desk  to  the  side  of  his  easy  chair, 
and  stretch  his  legs  carelessly  out,  and  lean  back  comfortably,  and  place 
his  elbow  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  prop  his  chin  with  his  closed 
hand,  and  look  at  his  book  with  happy  eyes  and  smiling  mouth,  she 
knew  then  that  she  might  creep  to  his  side,  scramble  on  to  one  of  his 
knees,  nestle  her  cheek  against  his  bosom,  and  thus  sit  on  his  lap  and 
play  with  her  doll  without  interrupting  him.  Nay,  at  such  times  of  idle 
reading,  she  might  feel  that  she  was  welcome  ; for  the  arm  that  supported 
her  on  his  knee,  would  now  and  then  give  her  a hug,  or  the  head  that 
bent  over  hers  would  press  its  lips  upon  her  hair,  when  the  leaf  of  the 
book  wanted  turning  over. 

She  looked  at  him  now,  as  he  sat  there  reading,  and  wondered  that 
he  preferred  sitting  still,  and  gazing  at  those  lines,  and  turning  page 
after  page,  and  reading  on  and  on,  instead  of  going  out  for  a ride, 
or  a race  in  the  avenue,  or  a frolic  on  the  lawn,  or  some  other  plea- 
sant amusement.  u I suppose  he  finds  reading  very  pleasant  too ; I 
suppose  he  likes  reading  as  well  as  I like  playing.”  Some  such  thoughts 
as  these  doubtless  passed  through  little  Portia’s  mind  ; she  went  close  up 
to  Bellario,  and  leaned  her  two  elbows  on  his  knee,  and  gazed  steadily 
up  into  the  face  that  was  looking  as  steadily  into  the  open  book  ; and 
she  presently  said  abruptly  : — •“  I wish  you  would  teach  me  my  letters  ; 
I want  to  read  with  cugino  mio.” 

Her  uncle, — or  cousin  as  she  called  him, — caught  her  up  in  his  arms 
with  delight  at  finding  that  his  hope  was  fulfilled  ; the  sight  of  the  plea- 
sure derived  from  reading,  had  inspired  the  voluntary  desire  to  taste 
that  pleasure ; of  her  own  accord  she  wished  to  learn. 

From  that  time  forth,  the  hours  devoted  to  pleasure-reading  were 
partly  spent  in  pointing  out  the  big  letters  in  each  page  to  the  little 
girl  upon  his  knee.  First  their  forms  were  pointed  out,  and  pretty 


42 


PORTIA  ; 


stories  were  invented,  to  fix  their  different  shapes  and  names  in  the 
child’s  memory ; then  came  the  amusement  of  finding  out  the  shortest 
words  in  each  line,  that  the  little  one  might  spell  them,  and  find  out  the 
sound  the  letters  made,  when  put  together  in  words.  For  this  purpose, 
any  hook  that  happened  to  lie  upon  the  desk  to  charm  the  grave  lawyer 
in  his  hours  of  poetic  recreation,  would  serve  equally  well  to  display  the 
alphabetic  symbols,  and  mere  first  syllables,  to  the  infant  student.  To 
him,  the  magic  page  might  often  conjure  up  visions  of  the  proud  AEneas. 
and  forsaken  Dido  ; of  meek- hearted  Griselda,  or  wandering  Constance  ; 
of  the  pale  pair  of  lovers,  swept  upon  the  whirlwind  of  the  hell-storm  ; 
of  the  docile  giant  Morgante  ; of  Orlando,  Binaldo,  handsome  Astolfo, 
the  daring  Englishman,  mounted  on  his  hippogriff,  and  the  lovely  Ange- 
lica, with  her  beauteous  boy-lover,  Medoro  ; of  the  noble  amazon,  Clo- 
rinda,  with  her  dying  face  irradiated  by  immortal  hope  ; of  all  these 
poetic  images  might  Bellario  in  turn  behold  traces  in  the  opened  page, 
while  to  his  neophyte  it  merely  bore  elemental  figures  and  hieroglyphic 
shapes — but  in  which  nevertheless  lay  a hidden  world  of  future  intelli- 
gence and  beauty.  To  endow  his  tender  scholar  with  the  power  to  seek 
this  enchanted  region,  to  render  her  worthy  of  its  attainment,  and  to  gift 
her  with  the  right  of  participation  in  its  happy  possession,  became  Bel- 
lario’ s chief  delight ; and  in  order  that  he  might  devote  as  much  time  as 
possible  to  his  little  Portia,  he  thenceforth  had  all  writings  and  papers 
brought  over  to  Belmont,  and  contrived  to  conduct  every  case,  and  to 
transac.  all  business  there,  that  did  not  absolutely  require  his  presence 
in  Padua,  Venice,  or  elsewhere. 

Thus  they  became  closer  companions  than  ever  ; and  while  Bellario 
beheld  the  happy  looks,  and  gay  smiles  of  the  little  creature,  he  could 
scarcely  regret  that  she  had  no  fitter  playmate  than  a grave  bachelor- 
uncle, — a learned  doctor  of  law. 

From  the  day  when  she  had  besought  him  to  teach  her,  Portia  had 
learned  to  love  her  lessons  as  much  as  she  had  formerly  dreaded  them. 
They  were  never  after  that  time  called  a nasty  letters” — but  were  “ pretty 
letters,”  and  “ dear  pretty  books,”  and  now  no  longer  thought  of  as  a 
dreary  task,  but  as  a pleasant  play — nearly  the  pleasantest  play  she  had. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


43 


Now,  she  would  follow  the  pointer  with  unwearied  interest  as  it  traced 
the  curves  of  the  letters,  and  indicated  their  combination  and  succession 
in  the  formation  of  syllables  and  words ; sometimes  she  would  guide 
her  own  baby  finger  along  the  line  in  pointing  mimicry,  sometimes  she 
would  pat  with  her  spread  hands  upon  the  lower  part  of  the  page,  as  in 
childish  impatience,  or  in  sportive  concealment  of  what  was  to  come,  and 
sometimes  she  would  lean  her  folded  chubby  arms  upon  the  ledge  of  the 
desk  that  supported  the  book,  and  listen  earnestly  to  the  recited  story, 
or  gaze  at  the  wondrous  picture. 

There  was  one  picture,  an  especial  favorite.  It  was  very  large,  and 
folded  up  into  a book,  that  it  belonged  to,  in  several  folds.  As  these 
folds  were  successively  and  carefully  undone,  and  spread  forth  (for  Por- 
tia was  taught  to  respect  books,  and  to  handle  their  leaves  very  gently 
lest  they  should  be  injured),  she  loved  to  watch  the  gradual  appearance 
of  the  different  portions  of  the  curious  scene,  which,  though  she  knew  so 
well,  she  was  never  tired  of  looking  at.  There  was  a wild  mountainous 
district  towards  one  end  of  the  long  picture ; and  here  she,  beheld  a sin- 
gular building,  that  looked  half  like  a house  and  half  like  a ship,  near 
which  stood  a venerable  old  man,  and  two  or  three  younger  ones,  with 
some  women,  who  were  watching  the  approach  of  a vast  train  of  animals, 
that  walked  two  and  two,  and  formed  a strange  procession,  extending 
and  diminishing  away  into  the  distance,  where  might  be  seen  a tumult 
of  troubled  waters,  and  the  dark  clouds  of  a threatening  storm. 

It  was  these  numberless  animals  that  riveted  the  attention  of  the 
little  picture-gazer ; and  she  would  coax  from  her  indulgent  teacher  an 
endless  repetition  of  histories  descriptive  of  the  tawny  lion,  with  his 
majestic  roar  that  echoes  through  the  forests  as  he«stalks  along;  of  the 
velvet-striped  tiger,  with  his  cruel  eyes ; of  the  stately  elephant ; the 
swift  and  noble  horse;  the  faithful  dog;  the  graceful  stag;  and  the 
nimble  squirrel.  He  would  tell  her  of  the  humble  little  mouse,  whose 
gratitude  lent  it  patience  and  perseverance  to  nibble  through  the  bonds 
that  held  captive  the  king  of  beasts ; of  the  fox  that  used  its  cunning 
wits  to  get  out  of  the  well,  at  the  expense  of  the  silly  credulous  goat ; and 
of  the  wise  young  kid,  who,  in  remembering  her  mother’s  advice  to  keep 


44 


PORTIA  ; 


the  door  fast,  saved  herself  from  being  eaten  up  by  the  treacherous 
wolf.  He  would  tell  her  how  the  eagle’s  strong  eyes  can  boldly  stare 
into  the  sun,  his  powerful  beak  can  cleave  the  skull-bone  of  his  prey,  and 
his  firm  wing  upbear  him  towards  the  sky  ; how  the  bee-like  humming- 
bird can  creep  into  the  cup  of  a flower  ; and  how  the  winged  creatures 
of  the  air,  from  the  crested  vulture  to  the  diminutive  wren,  know  how  to 
construct  their  curious  nests,  and  build  them  warm,  snug,  close,  and 
cleverly,  of  mere  bits  of  twig,  and  straw,  and  moss. 

While  these  things  were  telling,  the  rides  and  out-of-door  pastimes 
would  be  well-nigh  forgotten  ; but  the  prudent  monitor  would  let  neither 
his  pupil’s  eagerness  nor  his  own,  detain  them  too  long  from  the  pure 
breath  of  heaven,  or  the  due  exchange  of  mental  exertion  for  physical 
exercise ; and  so  the  books  were  laid  aside,  and  out  the  two  would  sally, 
through  the  window  that  opened  on  to  the  terrace,  and  down  the  steps 
(Portia  clinging  to  her  cousin’s  hand,  as  she  tottered  from  one  marble  stair 
to  the  other,  bringing  each  foot  safely  down  at  a time),  till  they  reached 
the  shady  avenue,  the  scene  of  most  of  their  open-air  sports. 

But  though  the  child  and  the  bachelor-lawyer  sufficed  thus  for  each 
other’s  happy  companionship,  there  were  times  when  Bellario  thought  it 
might  have  been  better,  could  his  little  Portia  have  had  the  society  of 
other  children.  As  it  was,  she  was  too  much  the  object  of  exclusive 
attention  to  people  all  older  than  herself,  and  this  tended  to  foster  the 
idea  that  she  was  a personage  of  vast  importance,  which,  her  position  in 
life,  as  well  as  the  remarks  of  injudicious  dependents,  were  calculated 
to  engender.  He  thought  that,  had  she  some  young  associate,  this  im- 
pression might  be  weakened  by  the  equality  that  naturally  establishes 
itself  between  children,  who  know  little  of  forms  and  observances,  and 
are  apt  to  play  together,  asserting  their  individual  opinions  and  wishes, 
regardless  of  difference  in  rank  or  station.  He  thought,  too,  that  with 
one  younger  than  herself,  the  sense  of  power,  almost  inseparable  from 
her  condition,  might  assume  the  form  of  benevolence  and  kindness  ; and 
that  in  lieu  of  the  imperious  insolence  which  too  often  accompanies  the 
command  of  those  older  than  the  mistress  herself,  she  might  learn  to 
rule  with  bounteous  consideration,  and  affectionate  protective  care.  He 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


45 


wished  that  the  future  lady  of  Belmont  should  be  beloved,  as  well  as 
obeyed,  by  her  dependents. 

An  opportunity  offered  shortly  after,  for  carrying  out  his  desired  ex- 
periment. Madame  Ursula  confided  to  him  a grievous  trouble  respect- 
ing a sister  of  hers,  who  had  some  time  since  degraded  herself,  and 
committed  the  honor  of  her  family,  by  marrying  a small  tradesman  in 
Venice.  u The  miserable  girl  too  late  found  out  her  mistake,”  said  the 
dame  ; u for  I can  in  no  other  way  account  for  her  death,  which  hap- 
pened soon  after  giving  birth  to  a little  girl.  As  for  the  poor  wretch, 
who  dared  to  marry  her,  he  doubtless  awoke  to  a sense  of  his  presump- 
tion, although,  also,  too  late ; for  he  is  just  dead,  and  has  left  his  child 
without  a single  bagattino*  to  bless  herself  with.  She  must  go  into  ser- 
vice, of  course;  but  she  must  wait  till  she  is  grown  up,  for  that.  Though 
I took  Bianca’s  folly  deeply  to  heart,  and  vowed  never  to  forgive  the 
injury  she  had  done  our  family,  yet  I hope  I know  my  duty  better 
than  to  let  her  wretched  offspring  starve.  I thought,  therefore,  I would 
consult  you,  Signor  Dottore,  upon  the  propriety  of  letting  the  child 
come  here  and  stay  at  Belmont,  until  she  is  old  enough  to  become 
cameriera  to  the  Contessina  Portia.  I will  promise  that  the  miserable 
little  creature  shall  be  kept  strictly  within  the  precincts  of  the  house- 
keeper’s apartments,  and  shall  not  be  permitted  to  intrude  upon  the  pre- 
sence of  either  yourself  or  the  Contessina.” 

“ Let  her  come  to  Belmont  by  all  means,  Madame answered  Bel- 
lario  ; u and  pray  do  not  restrict  the  children  from  playing  together  as 
much  as  they  please.  Your  little  darling  will  make  a charming  com- 
panion for  mine,  I doubt  not.” 

“ My  1 little  darling,’  Signor  ! She  is  none  of  mine  ! Nerissa  is  none 
of  my  child  !”  exclaimed  Madame  Ursula  with  a chaste  shiver  ; “ but  as 
my  sister’s  child,  I thank  you  for  the  permission  that  she  may  come 
here.” 

The  faithful  Balthazar  was  dispatched  to  Venice  to  fetch  the  little 
Nerissa  to  her  future  home  ; and  Bellario  told  Portia  of  the  new  play- 
fellow who  was  coming  to  be  with  her  at  Belmont.  She  answered  that 

* A small  copper  coin,  formerly  current  in  Venice. 


46 


PORTIA  ; 


she  wanted  no  one  to  play  with  her  but  her  own  cugino  ; nevertheless, 
he  could  perceive  that  as  the  time  drew  near  for  the  expected  arrival, 
Portia's  eyes  were  often  directed  towards  the  door  of  the  saloon,  where 
they  were  dining;  Madame,  as  usual,  presiding  at  the  head  of  the 
table. 

At  length  they  heard  a horse’s  feet  coming  up  the  avenue,  and  Portia 
slid  down  from  her  chair,  to  peep  out  of  the  window  at  the  new-comer. 
Presently,  they  heard  a child’s  voice,  and  then  a peal  of  joyous  laughter  ; 
the  door  opened,  and  Balthazar,  who  had  used  his  best  exertions  to  enter- 
tain his  young  fellow-traveller  during  their  journey,  brought  the  child 
in,  in  his  arms,  while  she  was  still  shouting  with  merriment  at  some 
droll  story  he  had  been  telling  her. 

This  indecorous  entry  scandalized  Madame,  and  she  frowned  appall- 
ingly. 

The  little  Nerissa,  placed  suddenly  upon  her  feet  in  the  midst  of 
strangers,  stood  transfixed,  gazing  at  them ; and  as  she  scanned  these 
new  faces,  the  smiles  faded  from  her  lips,  which  she  began  to  pull  pout- 
ingly  with  one  finger,  eyeing  the  group  askance. 

“ Take  your  fingers  out  of  your  mouth,  do,  child  ; and  come  here,” 
said  Madame  Ursula. 

It  seemed  that  the  uninviting  tone  had  more  force  than  the  words, 
for  the  child  said  shortly  : — “No.” 

“ Come  here  when  I bid  you ; come  to  me repeated  Madame  with  a 
still  more  forbidding  look  and  tone  than  before. 

“ No  again  replied  the  little  one.  Then,  turning  to  Balthazar,  and 
clutching  his  skirts,  she  added : — “ I’ll  come  to  you ; take  me  on  the 
horse  again.” 

Beliario  had  purposely  said  nothing,  that  he  might  see  what  Portia 
would  do  of  her  own  accord.  She  now  took  a cake  and  some  sweet- 
meats off  the  dinner-table  and  went  towards  the  little  stranger,  holding 
them  out  to  her,  and  said  “ Won’t  you  have  some?” 

Nerissa  looked  at  Portia  for  a moment,  then  took  one  of  the  offered 
sweets,  and  next  held  out  her  rosy  mouth,  as  she  had  been  taught  to  do, 
that  she  might  kiss  her  thanks  ; but  she  still  maintained  her  grasp  of 
Balthazar’s  skirt. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


47 


Portia  went  back  to  the  table  for  a nectarine,  and  returning  again, 
stuffed  that  also  into  the  child’s  hand,  then  holding  out  her  own,  she 
said : — ■“  Won’t  you  come  with  me  to  cugino?” 

The  little  hand  dropped  its  hold  of  the  attendant’s  coat,  and  was 
given  confidingly  to  this  new  friend,  who  led  her  in  a sort  of  triumph  to 
Bellario. 

The  acquaintance  thus  begun,  went  on  prosperously.  Nerissa  looked 
up  to  Portia  as  her  abettor  and  protectress  in  all  her  encounters  with 
her  awful  aunt ; while  the  encouragement  and  patronage  which  the  little 
lady  of  Belmont  accorded  to  her  new  playmate,  was  accompanied  by  a 
gentle  feeling  of  care  and  tenderness  for  one  younger  and  more  helpless 
than  herself. 

It  is  true  that  there  was  but  a year’s  difference  between  them  ; but 
at  their  age  a few  months  make  a prodigious  disparity ; besides,  the 
little  lady  had  not  only  constantly  associated  with  her  grave  cousin,  but 
was  of  a naturally  intelligent  reflective  mind,  whereas  the  humble  dam- 
sel  was  one  of  the  most  thoughtless,  gay,  giggling,  sportive,  merry  little 
rogues  in  the  whole  world. 

This  temperament  of  Nerissa’s  caused  Bellario  to  rejoice  more  than 
ever  at  the  fortunate  chance  which  had  brought  the  two  children  together; 
for  he  felt  that  it  acted  as  an  antidote  to  the  too  grave  society  in  which 
his  beloved  Portia  would  otherwise  have  exclusively  passed  her  youth. 
Now,  he  had  the  delight  of  hearing  the  two  merry  voices  constantly 
echoing  through  the  halls  and  woods  of  Belmont  in  sportive  gladness ; 
and  the  laugh  of  Nerissa  herself  could  scarcely  ring  more  clearly  and 
happily  than  that  of  his  gifted  but  cheerful-hearted  Portia.  In  playing 
together,  the  two  children  seemed-  animated  by  one  spirit ; equally 
buoyant,  active,  mirthful,  nay  wild  in  their  gayety  of  heart  while  sporting 
about;  but  in  one  point  they  differed  materially.  Nerissa  was  the 
veriest  little  dunce  that  ever  was  ; neither  frowns  and  threats  from  dame 
Ursula,  nor  coaxings  and  rallyings,  and  pettings  and  teasings  from  Portia, 
could  induce  the  little  damsel  ever  to  look  into  a volume ; whilst,  on  the 
contrary,  Portia’s  chief  delight  continued  to  be  the  hours  she  spent  with 
Bellario  and  his  books.  She  was  gay  with  Nerissa,  but  she  was  happy 
with  him. 


48 


PORTIA  ; 


It  was  perhaps  fortunate  for  Portia  that  her  young  companion  was 
thus  indifferent  to  study ; it  made  the  hours  spent  with  her,  the 
more  completely  a relaxation,  and  by  forming  a wholesome  contrast, 
invigorated  and  refreshed  her  mind  for  new  culture.  With  the  giddy 
little  madcap  Nerissa,  the  freedom  and  elation  of  spirit  which  character- 
ized Portia,  no  less  than  her  mental  endowments  and  superiority  of  in- 
tellect, found  full  scope  ; and  childhood  sped  merrily  away. 

Even  the  austere  supervision  of  Madame  Ursula  was  withdrawn ; 
for  not  many  months  after  Nerissa’ s introduction  to  Belmont,  the  house- 
keeper died.  The  stern  dame  was  stricken  into  the  eternal  rigidity  of 
death  ; and  the  waiting-woman  Lisetta  was  heard  to  observe  in  her  hard 
way,  that  “ the  old  lady  looked  scarcely  more  stiff,  as  a corpse,  than  she 
had  done  when  alive.” 

As  years  went  on,  Bellario’s  hope  of  beholding  his  friend,  grew 
fainter  and  fainter ; and  yet,  in  proportion  as  his  hope  waned,  his  desire 
increased.  Besides  the  yearning  wish  to  look  upon  his  face,  he  longed 
for  Guido’s  return  with  strengthening  intensity,  as  he  beheld  the  still- 
improving graces  of  the  daughter  so  rashly  quitted.  He  longed  to  show 
him  the  worth  of  the  treasure  he  had  relinquished  ; to  unfold  to  him  the 
sources  of  consolation  he  had  abandoned,  in  the  person  of  this  dear 
being,  so  worthy  a representative  of  the  sainted  angel  they  had  lost. 
As  he  dwelt  with  rapture  on  the  beautiful  form  and  face  of  his 
darling,  and  watched  the  expanding  of  her  noble  nature  and  capacious 
mind,  he  pined  to  share  so  dear  a privilege  with  the  friend  of  his  heart — 
the  being  in  the  world  best  fitted  to  receive  and  enjoy  delight  from  such 
a source.  Still  Guido  returned  not ; and  Bellario  was  fain  to  beguile 
himself  with  the  fancy  that  he  cherished  even  a remote  hope  of  the  reward 
he  had  once  proposed  to  himself  for  his  devotion  to  his  friend’s  child. 
Had  he  allowed  himself  honestly  to  question  his  reason,  he  would  have 
found  how  little  faith  he  had  left,  that  the  delight  of  ever  placing  Portia 
in  a father’s  arms  was  yet  in  store  for  him ; but  he  continued  his  zealous 
culture  of  her  moral  and  mental  excellences,  as  if  to  strengthen  the 
delusion  be  hugged  the  closer  for  its  very  instability. 

Believed,  by  the  companionship  of  Nerissa,  from  any  dread  that 


THE  HEIRESS  OP  BELMONT. 


49 


Portia  might  become  too  exclusively  absorbed  in  serious  trains  of  thought, 
he  could  now  freely  permit  her  to  indulge  their  mutual  and  increasing 
taste  for  study  together ; and  he  would  often  laughingly  tell  her,  that 
though  she  had  no  regular  schooling,  no  masters,  no  accomplishments, 
no  womanly  teaching, — no  set  education  in  short,  yet  that  he  should  in 
time  make  her  an  excellent  scholar,  and  a most  capital  lawyer. 

Bellario  was  an  enthusiast  in  his  profession  ; and  Portia  loved  to 
hear  him  dwell  at  length  upon  its  attributes,  its  privileges,  its  powers, 
and  its  value.  He  would  descant  upon  his  favorite  theme  ; and  she, 
well  pleased  to  listen,  would  often  introduce  the  subject,  and  urge  and 
induce  him  to  continue  its  disquisition. 

Then  would  he  tell  her  of  the  divine  origin  of  Law  ; and  dilate  upon 
its  universal  existence  and  influence.  “ It  is  an  emulation  of  God’s  own 
wisdom,”  he  would  say,  “ who  appointed  laws  unto  himself  as  Creator  of 
the  universe.  The  system  of  planets,  the  courses  of  stars,  the  processes 
of  vegetation  and  reproduction  are  all  so  many  applications  of  force  and 
power,  and  ordained  forms  and  measures  of  carrying  out  His  will — and 
are  II  is  manifest  laws.  The  obedience  of  these  Natural  agents  to  the 
laws  of  the  Creator,  set  a sublime  lesson  to  us  voluntary  agents,  that  we 
may  meekly  conform  to  those  Human  Laws  which  have  been  the  inspi- 
ration of  His  Wisdom,  and  are  the  instruments  of  His  Will  upon  earth. 
Law  acts  as  a perpetual  memorial  to  man;  Divine  and  Natural  laws 
remind  him  of  his  duty  to  God  ; Moral  laws  of  his  duty  to  himself ; and 
Human  laws  of  his  duty  to  his  fellow-creatures.  See,”  he  continued, 
“ how  the  heathens  themselves  exalted  Law — naming  her  Themis,  and 
deriving  her  from  both  heaven  and  earth,  by  making  her  the  daughter  of 
Coelus  and  Terra;  one  of  their  historians  declaring  her  to  be  ‘queen  of 
gods  and  men.’  Law  unites  mankind  in  a universal  bond  of  fellowship, 
gathering  the  human  brotherhood  beneath  its  wings  ; teaching  them  the 
wisdom  of  mutual  regard  and  support,  instead  of  leaving  them  to  wan- 
der in  primeval  and  savage  individuality  of  interest — each  man’s  hand 
against  his  brother.  Men,  by  agreeing  to  conform  to  appointed  laws, 
yield  individual  judgment  to  the  matured  wisdom  of  the  many ; and  by 
consenting  to  abide  by  such  decrees,  show  that  they  prefer  the  common 
good  to  a private  indulgence — general  order  to  single  satisfaction.” 


5C 


PORTIA  ; 


“ By  taking  the  law  in  our  own  hands,  we  but  perpetuate  evil  in  the 
world ; dealing  a private  revenge,  instead  of  awarding  a publicly  sanc- 
tioned punishment.  Constituted  law  revenges  not ; it  chastises  Law, 
after  its  first  universal  love  for  the  good  of  the  human  race,  abjures  pas- 
sion ; and  rewards  or  punishes,  knowing  neither  love  nor  hate.  Law 
shows  tenderness,  only  in  the  protection  it  affords  to  the  weak  against 
the  strong;  when  it  substitutes  justice  for  the  right  of  might.” 

“ Law  ascertains  men’s  dues  by  no  capricious  standard  ; it  acts  from 
virtuous  principle,  not  from  impulse.  It  promotes  social  order,  and  dif- 
fuses harmonious  concord.  Men  who  will  not  act  equitably  and  in 
accordance  with  duty  at  a friend’s  suggestion,  will  often  submit  to  the 
same  intimation  from  the  Law,  which  they  know  to  be  indifferent,  im- 
partial, and  nowise  personal  in  its  dictates ; and  inasmuch  as  Reason  is 
insufficient  to  bind  some  men,  Law  was  instituted  to  constrain  and 
enforce  universal  obedience.  Would  men  but  live  honestly,  hurt  nobody, 
and  render  to  every  one  his  due,  the  necessity  of  Law  would  cease,  for  in 
those  three  precepts  are  contained  the  essence  of  what  Law  exacts.  Law 
but  seeks  to  establish  man’s  true  and  substantial  happiness.  It  sets 
forth  man’s  duties.,  and  the  penalties  of  transgressing  them,  for  his 
timely  instruction  and  warning.  Laws  are  the  result  of  public  appro- 
bation and  consent ; the  act  of  the  whole  body  politic,  and  not  the  edict 
■ of  one  despotic  mind.  Law  is  one  of  the  monuments  of  man’s  accumu- 
lated wisdom ; like  a vast  intellectual  temple,  its  range  of  columns  stretch 
through  successive  ages,  ever  receiving  renewal  and  addition,  without 
destruction  to  the  harmony  of  the  universal  edifice.” 

At  another  time  he  would  tell  her  that  Human  Law,  like  all  mortal 
systems,  was  subject  to  error,  both  in  its  ordinance  and  dispensation. 
“ But  law,”  said  Bellario,  u should  ever  err  rather  on  the  side  of  leniency 
and  mildness,  than  severity.  Where  laws  are  enacted  of  too  stringent  a 
nature,  and  where  the  penalties  inflicted  are  too  rigorous  in  proportion 
with  the  transgression  they  retaliate,  an  evasion  of  the  due  action  of  the 
law  frequently  ensues,  and  thus  the  ends  of  justice  are  frustrated,  by  an 
escape  of  punishment  altogether.  The  object  of  correction  is  reform ; 
and  the  penalty  enforced  should  be  so  appropriate  to  the  crime  committed, 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT* 


51 


as  to  excite  universal  acquiescence  in  its  award.  In  passing  sentence, 
clemency  should  ever  take  the  precedence ; for  better  that  many  guilty 
should  escape,  than  one  innocent. suffer.  A culprit  may  be  reclaimed  ; 
but  what  too-tardy  justice,  however  ample,  may  redress  an  undeserved 
condemnation  ? Mercy  in  all  her  aspects  is  the  fairest  sister  of  Justice. 
She  bestows  on  the  crown  its  dearest  prerogative — a privilege  akin  to 
that  of  Heaven  itself — when  she  reserves  to  the  king  the  power  of  re- 
versing doom,  and  granting  ultimate  pardon.” 

“ The  practice  of  Law,”  he  would  say,  “ induces  magnanimity.  It 
teaches  us  tolerance  towards  the  infirmities  of  our  fellow-beings  ; seeing 
how  the  best  natures  may  be  warped  by  unkindness,  ingratitude,  or  in- 
jury. It  engenders  compassion  for  human  frailty ; forbearance  on  ac- 
count  of  man’s  prejudices,  mistakes,  and  ignorance ; pity  for  his  imper- 
fections, and  desire  for  his  enlightenment.  It  inculcates  benevolence,  pa- 
tience, consideration.  It  bids  us  grieve  over  the  evil  we  discover,  and 
wonder  at  the  good  we  find  hidden  beneath  rage,  neglect,  and  destitu- 
tion. It  helps  us  to  mature  and  chasten  our  judgment.  It  instructs  us 
to  command  our  temper,  and  guard  against  the  heat  of  feeling,  to  mod- 
erate suspicion,  and  to  avoid  misconstruction.  It  reminds  us  that  to  be 
just  we  must  be  calm,  and  that  the  faculties  should  be  held  clear,  col- 
lected, and  alert.  We  should  be  ready  to  consider  not  only  facts,  but 
the  times  and  circumstances  of  facts.  We  should  cultivate  a retentive 
memory,  a patient  and  attentive  habit  of  listening,  acuteness  of  pene- 
tration in  observing,  and  an  appreciation  of  physiognomy,  expression, 
and  character.  We  should  aim  at  general  acquisition,  as  well  as  at  pe- 
culiar study ; and  endeavor  to  enlarge  the  mind  upon  various  subjects, 
rather  than  narrow  it  by  a too  exclusive  store  of  mere  cases  and  pre- 
cedents, so  as  to  be  enabled  to  decide  in  matters  that  befall  otherwise 
than  consistently  with  recorded  experience,  and  so  as  not  to  be  taken 
wholly  by  surprise  when  a totally  new  and  original  set  of  circumstances 
arise  and  invest  a case.  Accomplishment  in  oratory  as  well  as  sound- 
ness of  judgment  is  essentially  valuable,  that  you  may  not  only  carry 
conviction  by  the  train  of  your  reasoning,  and  the  strength  of  your  ar- 
guments, but  that  you  may  secure  the  attention,  and  win  the  favor  of 


52 


PORTIA  : 


the  more  superficial  among  your  auditors,  so  as  at  once  to  prepossess 
them  in  favor  of  your  cause.” 

“ Might  not  we  women  make  good  advocates,  then,  cugino  mio  ?” 
Portia  would  playfully  ask ; “ you  know  we  are  apt  to  speak  eloquently 
when  our  hearts  are  in  a cause,  and  when  we  desire  to  win  favor  in  its 
decision.” 

“ It  is  because  your  hearts  generally  take  too  active  a part  in  any 
cause  you  desire  to  win,  that  your  sex  would  make  but  poor  lawyers, 
carina.  Besides,  women,  though  shrewd  and  quick  judging,  are  apt  to 
jump  too  rapidly  at  conclusions,  and  mar  the  power  of  their  understand- 
ing by  its  too  vivacious  action.  They  are  liable  to  decide  upon  delusive 
inferences,  and  to  arrive  at  false  convictions.  In  the  exercise  of  their 
discernment,  they  will  frequently  triumph  too  early  in  the  discovery  of 
an  advantage  ; and  it  is  the  part  of  a clever  lawyer  not  to  betray  his 
own  strength  and  his  adversary’s  weakness  to  soon.  To  skilfully  treas- 
ure up  each  point  successively  gained,  and  by  a tardy  unmasking  of 
your  own  plan  of  action,  to  lead  your  opponent  on  to  other  and  more 
sure  committals  of  himself,  is  more  consonant  with  the  operation  of  a 
man’s  mind,  than  suited  to  the  eager,  impulsive  nature  of  woman.  Her 
wit  is  more  keen,  than  her  understanding  is  sedate.” 

“Well,  one  day  or  other  you  may  be  brought  to  acknowledge  that 
I could  make  a profound  lawyer,”  replied  the  smiling  Portia ; “ am  I 
not  your  disciple?  and  must  not  the  pupil  of  the  learned  Doctor  Bella- 
rio  needs  become  so  if  she  choose?” 

“ My  Portia  will  become  quite  as  proficient  as  I could  wish  her,  if 
she  know  enough  of  law  to  manage  worthily  and  justly  her  own  estate 
by  and  by,”  answered  he ; “ and  it  is  with  the  thought  that  she  will  here- 
after be  called  upon  as  lady  of  Belmont,  to  rule  her  tenantry,  to  adjust 
their  rights,  to  settle  their  differences,  to  decide  their  claims,  and  to  se- 
cure their  welfare,  that  I allow  her  to  cr^ss-question  me  upon  the  mys- 
teries of  law  as  she  has  done.  And  so  now,  that  I may  not  make  an 
absolute  pedant  of  you,  a jurisconsult  in  petticoats,  a lawyer  in  a girl’s 
white  dress  instead  of  a sober  silk  gown,  go  call  Nerissa  to  have  a game 
at  ball  with  you  in  the  avenue,  till  I come  and  join  you,  that  we  may 
take  a long  walk  together.” 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


53 


And  still  time  crept  on  ; and  the  young  girl  grew  almost  into  the 
beautiful  woman.  Her  slight  childish  figure  had  rounded  into  graceful 
proportions ; her  deportment  had  assumed  more  high-bred  ease  and 
polish  ; her  countenance  shone  with  brighter  intelligence  ; and  her  voice 
and  manner,  without  losing  their  native  sweetness,  had  acquired  a tone 
of  command  and  dignity  well  suited  to  the  lady  of  Belmont.  But  the 
profusion  of  golden  locks  which  waved  upon  her  shoulders,  and  the  un- 
clouded spirits  that  bounded  in  her  elastic  step,  and  sparkled  in  her  lips 
and  eyes,  bespoke  her  youth,  and  her  happy  innocent  nature.  She 
looked  still  the  child,  in  some  things. 

It  was  the  morning  on  which  she  completed  her  seventeenth  year. 
She  entered  the  library  where  Bellario  sat,  and  as  she  stepped  forward 
to  present  him  with  a rare  old  volume  of  poetry  and  a heap  of  blushing 
dew  covered  flowers  which  she  had  just  gathered  as  a birthday  token, 
she  looked  so  radiant  with  happiness  and  beauty,  that  he  involuntarily 
gazed  at  her  as  he  would  have  done  at  a beautiful  vision — an  impersona- 
tion of  childhood  on  the  verge  of  womanhood.  Her  fair  hair,  partly 
disordered  by  the  eagerness  with  which  she  had  collected  her  flowers 
regardless  of  thorns,  spray,  drooping  leaves,  or  sweeping  branches  ; her 
cheeks  glowing  with  morning  air  and  exercise ; her  April  eyes,  bright 
with  mingled  smiles  and  tears,  as  she  greeted  him  who  had  been  father 
and  brother  both  in  one  to  her  infancy  and  girlhood  ; her  tender  looks, 
her  gentle  sweetness,  her  loving  manner,  half  lavish,  half  timid,  while 
contending  with  all  the  strong  emotion  that  filled  her  heart  towards  him, 
as  she  knelt  upon  the  cushion  at  his  feet,  and  laid  her  head  caressingly 
upon  his  knee,  all  made  him  fancy  her  a little  fondling  child  again. 
But  when,  some  minutes  after,  she  stood  at  his  side,  discussing  with  en- 
thusiasm the  beauties  of  the  poet  whose  richly-emblazoned  volume  she 
held  in  her  hand  ; when  her  eyes  beamed  with  intelligence,  her  figure 
dilated  with  the  energy  of  her  appreciation  of  lofty  sentiment  and  dar- 
ing imagination,  her  tone  thrilled  with  admiration  and  awe,  and  her 
whole  appearance  was  instinct  with  elevation  and  sublimity  of  thought, 
Bellario  felt  that  he  gazed  upon  a sentient,  high-minded  woman — one 
capable  of  bearing  her  part  in  the  great  drama  of  life,  and  of  influencing 
the  destinies  of  others  by  her  intel^*  c 1 -• 


54 


PORTIA  r 


In  acknowledging  her  birthday-gift,  Bellario  told  Portia  that  he  had 
chosen  this  occasion  for  the  fulfilment  of  a desire  she  had  expressed,  that 
a band  of  household  musicians  might  be  added  to  the  retainers  of  Bel- 
mont. He  said,  they  had  been  appointed  to  come  from  Venice  on  this 
very  day,  in  honor  of  the  event,  and  he  felt  somewhat  surprised  that 
they  had  not  already  arrived. 

u But  we  will  contrive  to  spend  the  day  happily,  notwithstanding, 
added  he  ; “ we  will  forego  the  pleasure  of  music  for  one  day  more  ; and 
meantime  we  will  order  the  horses  and  take  one  of  our  long  rambles 
together.  You  cannot  remember  the  time,  my  Portia,  when  one  horse 
served  well  for  us  both,  and  you  needed  no  other  seat  than  my  saddle- 
bow?” 

“ It  seems  as  though  that,  and  all  other  particulars  of  the  season 
when  your  arms  were  my  only  support,  even  from  the  very  moment 
when  I first  was  placed  a mere  infant  within  them,  lived  in  my  memory, 
as  truly  as  it  does  in  my  heart’s  core,”  replied  she. 

They  rode  that  day,  far  and  wide  through  the  domains  of  Belmont. 
They  visited  the  waterfall,  deep  in  the  recesses  of  the  wTood,  and  as  they 
guided  their  horses  down  the  steep  path  of  the  briery  dell,  and  listened 
to  the  soft  rustling  of  the  leaves,  the  warbled  song  of  birds,  the  hum  of 
insects,  and  the  murmur  of  the  cascade,  Bellario’s  voice  would  subduedly 
chime  in  with  those  sounds  of  Nature,  telling  her  of  the  growth  of  her 
parent’s  love,  of  their  noble  qualities,  of  their  worthiness  of  each  other, 
and  of  the  happy  pride  with  which  he  himself  had  shared  in  the  friend- 
ship which  united  the  three. 

They  lingered  beneath  the  group  of  ruins,  which  had  once  formed 
the  object  of  a memorable  walk,  and  Bellario  told  her  of  the  unselfish 
fortitude  with  which  her  mother  had  sought  to  conceal  her  fatigue,  of 
her  generous  impetuous  father,  of  the  feelings  which  he  had  since  de- 
tected were  lingering  in  the  hearts  of  each,  and  of  his  own  complete 
blindness  to  the  lovers’  increasing  passion  for  each  other. 

u I have  often  wondered  since,  how  I could  have  failed  to  note  what 
was  passing  beneath  my  very  eyes,  so  closely  concerning  two  beings 
whom  I loved  so  well,”  said  Bellario ; “ and  two  beings,  also,  who  were 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


55 


singularly  transparent  and  unreserved.  My  sister’s  nature  was  pure, 
ingenuous,  and  simple,  and  her  every  thought  seemed  unveiled,  as  you 
looked  into  her  clear  eyes ; your  father’s  ardent  sensibility  glowed  in 
every  expression  of  his  look  and  voice,  and  perfect  candor  dwelt  upon 
his  brow.  Every  emotion  of  that  noble  heart  seemed  written  in  his 
countenance ; and  never  had  generous  impulses  fairer  and  truer  trans- 
cript than  in  the  manly  beauty  of  my  friend’s  face.” 

“ I feel  as  if  I should  know  that  face,  meet  it  how  or  where  I might,” 
said  Portia,  in  a low  voice. 

“ God  grant  that  we  may  one  day  behold  it,”  replied  Bellario ; “ but 
it  must  needs  be  strangely  changed.  Suffering,  grief,  wanderings,  years 
of  absence  ; — perhaps  even  I might  not  now  know  my  Guido.” 

That  evening,  while  the  two  cousins  were  pacing  the  moonlit  avenue 
together,  Nerissa’s  blithe  voice  was  heard  from  the  terrace,  announcing 
the  arrival  of  the  expected  musicians. 

“ Come  in,  madam,”  cried  she  in  high  glee,  u come  in  quickly,  for  ihe 
love  of  laughter  ! If  these  same  players  have  as  ill-favored  fingers  as 
features,  if  their  instruments  yield  a sound  as  coarse  as  their  suits,  if 
they  have  no  better  sets  of  tunes  than  teeth,  or  no  tones  less  sharp  than 
their  noses,  we  are  like  to  have  but  sorry  music.  But  come  and  see 
them,  and  tell  me  if  you  have  ever  seen  a more  wry-necked,  ill-dressed, 
ugly  set  of  grotesque  figures  than  your  ladyship’s  musicians  elect. 
There  is  one  fellow’s  crooked  nose,  puckered  eyes,  puffed  cheeks,  and 
pinched  lips,  that  make  him  look  for  all  the  world  like  a head  on  the 
rainspout  of  a church.” 

The  girl  hurried  back,  as  she  spoke ; and  Bellario  leading  Portia  to 
the  terrace-steps,  kissed  her  hand,  and  told  her  he  would  join  her  in  a 
few  moments  to  try  whether  they  might  not  forget  the  plain  persons  of 
the  musicians  in  the  music  they  played.  Meanwhile,  he  paced  the 
avenue,  full  of  a thought  which  had  that  day  pressed  heavily  upon  him. 
His  first  perception  that  now  his  charge  was  no  longer  a child,  his  con- 
viction that  she  had  actually  grown  into  a lovely  woman,  was  accompa- 
nied with  the  thought  that  he  had  no  right  to  detain  her  in  solitude, 
apart  from  that  world  where  she  might  shine,  imparting  and  receiving  a 


56 


PORTIA  : 


more  extended  happiness.  He  felt  that  he  ought  not  to  confine  her 
sphere  of  existence  to  so  limited  a range  as  that  which  had  hitherto 
formed  the  boundaries  of  Portia’s  experience.  He  knew  that  the  heiress 
of  Belmont  should  now  be  introduced  into  a wider  circle  than  she  had 
hitherto  known,  that  she  might  form  her  judgment  of  mankind  itself, 
while  she  matured  and  enlarged  the  store  of  knowledge  she  had  hitherto 
reaped  from  books  alone. 

“Were  her  father  but  here  to  aid  me  with  his  counsel,”  thought  he. 
“ Who  so  qualified  to  decide  a daughter’s  conduct  ? Who  so  proper  to 
lead  her  among  her  fit  associates  ? Who  so  meet  to  assist  her  in  their 
selection,  and  to  guide  her  in  a still  more  important  choice  ? For  she 
will  marry — she  ought — she  must ; — so  fair,  so  gifted  a creature  will 
one  day  bless  and  be  blest  by  a man  worthy  of  her.  But  how  to  dis- 
cover him  V* 

In  a deep  reverie,  Bellario  threw  himself  upon  a low  grassy  bank 
that  swelled  from  the  turf  of  the  avenue.  The  bank  itself  was  in  the 
full  light  of  the  moon  ; but  it  was  near  to  the  trees,  which  cast  a deep 
shadow  within  a few  yards  of  where  he  sat. 

As  the  thought  of  his  beloved  friend  again  vibrated  through  his  heart 
with  a passionate  yearning,  he  almost  articulated  the  name  of  Guido  in 
the  deep  sigh  he  breathed. 

A sigh  still  more  profound  responded  to  his  own.  He  started  up  in 
surprise,  that  any  one  should  be  so  near ; when  a figure  emerged  from 
the  dark  shadow  of  the  trees,  and  stood  mutely  before  him.  Bellario 
gazed  strangely  upon  the  countenance  he  beheld ; for  in  no  lineament 
of  that  pale,  haggard  face, — neither  in  the  flattened  temple,  the  sunken 
cheek,  the  contracted  mouth,  or  in  the  dull  and  wistful  eyes,  could  he 
trace  any  memorial  of  the  youthful  image  that  dwelt  in  his  heart’s  rer 
membrance. 

But  when  the  stranger  staggered  forward,  and  putting  one  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  muttered  huskily  “ Bellario  !”  the  voice  revealed  all ; and 
with  the  rapturous  conviction  that  it  was  Guido  indeed  returned,  he 
strained  his  long-lost  friend  in  his  arms,  and  felt  the  terrible  thirst  of 
years  appeased. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


57 


A few  hasty  words  sufficed  to  tell  the  story  of  his  absence  ; for  Guido 
cared  not  to  dwell  upon  the  circumstances  of  that  dark  period  of  exile 
and  anguish.  In  the  transports  of  his  despair,  he  had  fled  from  the 
scenes  of  his  buried  happiness,  and  wandering  away  to  the  coast,  had 
embarked  and  set  sail  for  the  East,  where,  amid  rocky  deserts  and  sandy 
plains,  he  had  dragged  on  a weary  existence,  in  ascetic  solitude,  unable 
to  endure  the  sight  of  his  fellow-men.  In  latter  years  the  first  torture 
of  his  grief  had  yielded  to  a craving  desire  to  behold  the  child,  whom 
he  still  could  not  help  regarding  in  the  light  of  one  who  had  been  the 
destruction  of  his  earthly  happiness — of  one  whose  birth  had  caused  the 
death  of  her  whom  he  loved  better  than  life.  And  still  his  anxiety  to 
look  upon  this  innocent  murderer  grew  stronger  and  stronger ; and  at 
length  it  arose  to  a strange  fascination,  and  had  determined  him  to  en- 
dure all, — to  brave  the  torment  of  revived  sorrows,  that  he  might  satisfy 
this  burning  wish. 

66  I long,  yet  dread  to  see  this  child,”  he  concluded,  with  a wild  sad- 
ness in  his  manner,  which  had  something  almost  fierce  in  its  eagerness ; 
u show  it  to  me,  give  it  me,  Bellario  ! I will  not  injure  it,  I will  not 
harm  a hair  of  its  young  head  ! Though  it  killed  her,  yet  it  is  her 
child  ! Where  is  it,  Bellario?” 

“ She  left  me  but  now,”  replied  Bellario  calmly,  trying  to  soothe  his 
friend’s  perturbation  ; u you  think  of  her  as  a child,  forgetful  that  seven- 
teen years  have  elapsed.  She  is  now  a beautiful  woman  ; she  quitted  me 
but  a few  moments  before  I beheld  you.” 

u That  fair  creature  whom  you  led  to  the  terrace,  then,  was 

Gracious  heaven  ! I have  seen  her  ! My  child  ! I fancied  that  fair 
being  by  your  side  was  your  own,  your  wife  ! A second  such  delusion  ! 
And  are  you  indeed  destined  to  bestow  upon  me  another  Portia  ?” 

A strain  of  music  arose  at  this  moment.  Solemn,  sweet,  and  exqui- 
sitely tender  was  the  melody  that  came  wafted  towards  them  upon  the 
night  air ; it  seemed  vouchsafed,  consolingly  ministrant  to  the  wounded 
spirit  of  Guido,  that  his  long-pent  heart  might  find  relief  in  the  tears 
which  flowed  responsive  to  these  appealing  sounds. 

Bellario  hailed  the  benign  influence  ; but  suddenly  he  laid  his  hand 


58 


PORTIA  ; 


upon  his  friend’s  arm,  and  pointing  towards  the  terrace,  he  whispered : 
— She  comes ; control  your  own  agitation,  my  friend,  that  you  may 
spare  hers.” 

Guido  gazed  in  the  direction  indicated  ; he  beheld  one  of  the  win- 
dows that  opened  on  to  the  ground,  thrown  back,  and  a flood  of  light 
from  the  saloon,  together  with  a swelling  burst  of  the  harmony,  accom- 
panied forth  a radiant  figure  that  stepped  out  upon  the  terrace,  and  took 
its  way  towards  them.  The  white  raiment,  the  floating  golden  hair,  the 
graceful  mien,  the  spiritual  look,  as  she  approached  bathed  in  the  full 
glory  of  the  moonbeams,  made  her  seem  a seraph  sent  by  pitying 
Heaven,  and  Guido  stretched  forth  his  arms,  as  towards  a celestial  har- 
binger of  happiness. 

As  she  reached  the  spot  where  they  stood,  Bellario  took  her  hand, 
and  said  in  his  calm  impressive  voice  : — ■“  Remember  your  words  of  this 
morning,  my  Portia.  Does  your  heart  tell  you  whose  is  the  face  you 
look  upon  V1 

u My  father  !”  she  exclaimed ; and  the  parent  and  child  savored  the 
ineffable  transport  of  a first  embrace. 

Guido  thus  restored  to  them,  the  happiness  of  Portia  and  Bellario 
seemed  now  complete ; while  the  Count,  in  discovering  the  fruitful 
source  of  comfort  and  joy  existing  for  him  in  the  person  of  his  child, 
wondered  how  he  could  have  voluntarily  remained  dead  to  its  enjoyment 
during  that  long  and  dreary  period  of  self-imposed  banishment.  Thus 
blindly  does  mortal  judgment  err  in  its  choice  of  what  may  constitute 
its  own  felicity ; casting  forth  its  trust  in  Providential  care,  forsaking 
appointed  consolation,  and  dully  embracing  woe  for  its  portion.  But 
now,  his  eagerness  to  duly  estimate  the  treasure  he  possessed,  partook 
of  all  the  characteristic  ardor  of  his  nature.  His  love  for  this  new- 
found daughter  amounted  to  idolatry ; and  in  the  passionate  desire  he 
felt  to  retain  her  ever  in  his  sight,  it  seemed  as  though  he  sought  to 
indemnify  himself  for  the  years  of  separation  already  suffered  to  elapse. 
In  his  craving  wish  to  behold  her  unceasingly,  to  enjoy  her  presence  ex- 
clusively, he  would  fain  have  engrossed  her  thoughts  as  she  absorbed 
his,  and  he  almost  jealously  beheld  her  eyes,  her  words,  her  attention 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


59 


directed  to  any  other  object  but  himself.  There  was  a kind  of  dread,  a 
misgiving  that  he  could  not  occupy  her  heart  as  she  did  his ; and  in  the 
humiliating  consciousness  that  if  this  were  the  case,  he  could  alone 
blame  his  own  rash  exile  from  the  child  whose  love  he  might  have 
secured,  a feverish  inquietude  mingled  with  his  present  happiness,  and 
threatened  to  embitter  its  fruition. 

Bellario  noted  the  struggle  existing  in  his  friend’s  mind,  and  well 
knew  how  to  deal  tenderly  with  such  a mood  of  affection.  He  could 
compassionate  its  sufferings,  forgive  its  involuntary  injustice,  and  minister 
to  its  relief.  Accordingly  he  determined  to  quit  them  for  a time,  that 
the  father  and  daughter  might  be  thrown  solely  upon  each  other’s  re- 
sources ; and,  by  being  constantly  and  uninterruptedly  together,  they 
might  thus  learn  to  find  their  mutual  happiness  in  one  another  alone. 

A cause  imperatively  requiring  his  personal  presence  formed  suf- 
ficient pretext  for  his  absence  ; and  after  confiding  to  his  friend  the 
anxiety  he  felt  respecting  Portia’s  future  introduction  into  more  general 
society,  when  they  should  have  enjoyed  a sufficient  period  of  tranquil 
seclusion  together,  Bellario  left  Belmont,  and  retired  to  Padua,  where 
he  had  always  maintained  a modest  establishment  of  his  own,  for  the 
reception  of  clients,  and  in  transacting  the  business  of  his  profession ; 
as  well  as  that  he  might  indulge  the  old  love  of  independence  which  had 
ever  characterized  him. 

Here,  he  had  the  delight  of  learning  from  Portia  the  complete  suc- 
cess of  his  scheme.  In  the  frequent-  correspondence  she  maintained 
with  her  beloved  cousin,  the  restored  serenity  of  her  father,  the  affection 
that  reigned  between  them,  the  happiness  of  their  present  existence, 
which  knew  no  abatement  to  the  fulness  of  its  perfection  save  the  want 
of  Bellario’s  presence,  formed  the  constant  theme  of  her  pen,  and  caused 
him  to  rejoice  that  he  had  acted  as  he  had  done.  He  knew,  too,  that 
this  bond  of  mutual  affection,  thus  daily  knit  and  strengthened,  would 
cause  them  only  the  more  to  depend  upon  each  other,  when  they  should 
come  to  encounter  the  world,  and  be  surrounded  by  indifferent  people ; 
and  he  could  now  await  with  security  the  period  of  Portia’s  presentation 
under  a father’s  auspices. 


60 


PORTIA  ; 


Meantime,  Guido’s  confidence  in  the  love  existing  between  his 
daughter  and  himself  had  also  acquired  firmness.  He  could  no  longer 
entertain  a misgiving  of  the  fondness  that  dwelt  in  every  look,  that 
prompted  every  action,  that  lent  sweetness  to  every  tone,  and  dictated 
every  word,  as  she  hovered  perpetually  near  him,  evidently  drawing  as 
much  delight  from  his  vicinity  as  he  from  hers.  He  could  not  doubt  the 
interpretation  of  the  joy  that  played  in  her  smiles  when  she  saw  him  ap- 
proach, the  eagerness  that  impelled  her  towards  him,  the  beaming  eyes 
that  met  his  in  soft  response,  or  the  warmth  with  which  his  paternal 
caresses  were  welcomed,  and  returned  by  her  filial  ones.  He  felt  that 
his  Portia  was  indeed  fully  and  entirely  his  own  ; and  his  satisfied  heart 
flowed  in  rapturous  thanksgiving  to  the  Almighty,  for  so  gracious  a 
boon. 

As  his  faith  in  her  love  became  assured,  he  called  to  mind  what  Bel- 
lario  had  said  respecting  her  introduction  in  life,  and  he  felt  that  he  had 
now  courage  to  risk  the  intrusion  of  other  objects  upon  her  time  and  at- 
tention, secure  that  he  himself  was  paramount  in  her  regard. 

He  accordingly  consulted  with  her  upon  the  appointment  of  a day 
when  he  should  invite  all  the  families  with  whom  his  own  had  formerly 
held  intercourse  and  intimacy,  to  meet  at  Belmont  in  celebration  of  his 
return,  and  thus  to  renew  those  connections  which  had  been  broken  by 
his  absence. 

“ In  presenting  my  Portia  to  the  noble  ladies  of  the  houses  of  Man- 
frini  and  Barberigo  ; to  the  several  families  of  Montenegri,  Sforza,  Fos- 
cari,  and  others  of  my  friends  and  kindred,  I shall  offer  my  best  apology 
for  venturing  to  ask  a renewal  of  what  I forfeited  by  my  own  neglect ; 
and  they  will  readily  accede  to  a reconciliation  with  the  father  for  the 
sake  of  his  daughter,  that  they  may  obtain  her  society.” 

u If  my  father  flatter  his  daughter  thus,”  said  Portia  gayly,  u she 
need  fear  no  spoiling  from  flatterers  abroad.  The  veriest  courtier  of  them 
all  could  scarce  find  prettier  speeches  than  Count  Guido,  when  he  chooses 
to  praise  his  Portia.” 

It  is  in  order  that  her  giddy  head  may  be  steadied  betimes,”  replied  he 
in  the  same  tone,  “ and  learn  to  bear  all  the  flood  of  nonsense  that  will 
be  poured  into  her  ears  by  and  by,  without  being  turned  ever  after.” 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


61 


“And  so,  to  prevent  me  from  wearing  my  head  like  a weathercock  or 
ii  mill-wheel  by  and  by,  you’ll  risk  stuffing  it  with  vanity  now.  This  is 
willing  me  to  be  presently  vain,  lest  I become  a vane;  and  leads  me  into 
the  sin  of  vain  talking.” 

44  Then  leave  vain  talking,  and  hearken  seriously  to  a story  I have  to 
tell  thee  touching  a member  of  one  of  those  noble  families,  whom  I mean 
to  be  among  our  guests  at  our  approaching  festival.  The  young  Mar- 
quis of  Montferrat  is  able  to  tell  a witching  tale  in  a fair  lady’s  ear,  I 
doubt  not,  like  one  of  those  flatterers  we  spoke  of  but  now ; for  he  is  a 
likely  gallant,  handsome,  brave,  and  courteous.” 

44  A good  beginning  to  your  story,  padre  mio  ; 4 handsome,  brave, 
and  courteous  P What  follows  ? Generous,  accomplished,  witty,  per- 
haps ? What  is  your  sequel  ?” 

44  This  gentleman  is  the  sole  surviving  representative  of  the  rich  and 
noble  house  of  Montferrat,  famed  for  the  splendor  of  their  taste  at  home, 
and  for  the  renown  of  their  arms  abroad.  The  young  Marquis,  some 
months  since,  happened  to-  be  indulging  his  Venetian  predilection  for 
the  Adriatic,  by  coasting  along  her  shores  with  some  young  friends  in 
the  pleasure-galley  he  has  for  such  marine  excursions.  One  day  the 
party  had  landed  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  the  scenery,  and  had  caused 
their  noontide  repast  to  be  brought  from  the  vessel  by  their  attendants, 
and  spread  beneath  the  shade  of  some  trees  that  formed  a group  round 
a spot  of  attractive  coolness.  They  drooped  over  a spring  of  fresh  Water, 
which  welled  and  bubbled  forth  like  Galatea’s  transformed  love,  taking 
its  pellucid  way  in  meandering  streams  across  the  plains  towards  the  sea, 
as  if  it  sought  to  join  its  white  mistress  once  again  and  for  ever.” 

44  The  young  gallants  had  finished  their  repast,”  continued  Guido, 
44  and  had  most  of  them  wandered  away  in  different  directions  amid  the 
neighboring  woods  in  search  of  sport,  or  led  by  curiosity ; only  two  or 
three  attendants  remained  near  the  spot  to  collect  the  plate  and  various 
utensils  before  returning  to  the  ship.  But  the  fulfilment  of  this  duty 
was  postponed,  and  the  men  were  indulging  in  a game  of  Mora,  car- 
ried on  somewhat  apart,  and  in  as  subdued  a key  as  the  excitement  of 
play  would  permit  (gradually  arising  from  sotto  voce  to  eager  crescendo 


62 


PORTIA  ; 


and  sforzando),  under  pretence  of  being  unwilling  to  disturb  tbeir  young 
master  with  the  clatter  of  the  glass  and  silver  during  his  slumber;  for 
the  Marquis  had  fallen  back  upon  the  soft  grass,  and  had  yielded  to  the 
soothing  influence  of  the  scene  and  the  combined  geniality  of  the  late 
feast,  in  a siesta.” 

“ At  this  moment,  three  or  four  brigands,  belonging  to  a band  that 
infested  this  quarter,  and  had  their  lurking-place  in  the  adjoining  woods, 
rushed  forwards  in  hope  of  making  an  easy  spoil  of  the  gold  and  silver 
plate  which  lay  spread  around,  and  had  doubtless  lured  them  to  the  spot. 
The  scared  domestics  fled  ; and  the  ruffians  were  about  to  make  sure  of 
the  sleeping  nobleman,  by  stabbing  him  at  once,  when  a travel-worn 
stranger  suddenly  came  up,  and  by  opposing  the  cowardly  attack,  roused 
the  Marquis,  who  was  thus  enabled  to  draw  his  sword,  and  assist  the 
traveller  in  their  joint  defence.” 

“ The  noise  of  the  affray  soon  recalled  the  dispersed  company  ; and 
as  the  gentlemen  of  the  party  successively  hurried  to  the  spot  to  the 
rescue  of  their  friend,  the  brigands  fled  before  this  reinforcement.” 

“ The  Marquis  and  his  company  now  surrounded  the  traveller,  and 
offered  him  their  thanks  for  his  timely  succour,  with  an  earnestness 
more  the  result  of  their  own  courtesy,  than  due  to  the  service  rendered, 
which  was  no  more  than  an  act  of  common  Christian  charity.” 

“ You  tell  me  who  was  the  traveller,  in  thus  underrating  the  gallantry 
of  his  behaviour,  padre  mio,”  interrupted  Portia ; u nobody  but  Guido 
di  Belmonte  himself,  would  thus  talk  of  the  act  that  saved  a man’s  life.” 

“ The  Marquis  more  than  requited  the  service,  in  his  profuse  ac- 
knowledgments, his  generous  treatment  of  a stranger,  and  the  kindness 
and  zeal  with  which  he  sought  to  promote  his  wishes  when  he  found  that 
the  traveller  was  eager  to  proceed  on  his  journey,  which  had  been  de- 
layed by  an  adverse  accident  that  had  compelled  him  to  land,  a day  or 
two  before,  from  the  vessel,  in  which  he  had  been  sailing  from  the  East, 
and  which  was  bound  to  Venice.  He  entreated  him  to  use  his  galley, 
to  direct  its  course  whithersoever  he  might  desire  ; and  said  that  he  and 
his  company  would  proudly  escort  him  to  his  destination.  They  accord- 
ingly set  sail  for  Venice  immediately,  entertaining  him  as  an  honored 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


63 


guest  during  their  course  thither ; and  when  they  discovered  that  a pro* 
found  sorrow  which  possessed  him  wholly  prevented  the  stranger  from 
participating  in  their  revelry,  these  gentlemen  discreetly  forbore  to  in- 
trude upon  his  grief,  leaving  him  to  indulge  his  solitude  undisturbed  and 
respected.” 

u When,  however,  the  galley  made  the  port  of  Venice,  and  the  stranger 
and  his  entertainers  were  about  to  take  leave,  the  Marquis  begged  to 
know  the  name  of  the  man  to  whom  he  felt  himself  obliged  ; and  he,  in 
his  turn,  feeling  that  a mere  cold  adieu  was  but  poor  requital  for  the 
courtesy  and  kindness  he  had  received  at  the  hands  of  the  generous 
young  nobleman,  confided  to  him  the  sorrowful  story  of  his  life,  and  told 
him  that  should  he  ever  know  a period  of  restored  tranquility  and  peace 
of  mind,  he  would  entreat  him  to  come  and  see  if  Casa  Belmonte  could 
yield  as  pleasant  entertainment  and  welcome,  as  he  had  met  with  on 
board  the  galley  e Aglaia.5  With  this  compact  we  parted ; and  now 
that  I have  indeed  found  greater  happiness  than  I ever  dared  to  hope 
for  again,  I mean  to  invite  my  noble  young  friend  hither,  that  he  may 
behold  its  existence  and  its  source.  So  good  a heart  as  his,  will  not  fail 
to  rejoice  in  my  joy ; so  high  a taste  as  his  for  all  that  is  rare  and  beau- 
teous, must  needs  be  struck  with  the  cause  of  that  joy — my  child,  my 
Portia.  I would  now,  methinks,  have  all  my  friends  behold  her  father’s 
treasure  ; and  see  how  bounteous  Heaven,  in  her,  repays  him  for  all 
sorrows  past.” 

As  Guido  finished  speaking,  his  faithful  servant  Balthazar  came  to 
apprise  him  that  his  steward  was  awaiting  an  audience  in  the  library, 
with  some  papers  relative  to  the  estate,  which  required  inspection  and 
signature. 

The  Count  withdrew  to  the  library,  bidding  his  daughter  join  him 
there  as  soon  as  the  steward  should  have  retired,  that  they  might  write 
the  invitations  for  the  approaching  festival,  and  despatch  messengers 
with  them  to  the  several  families  in  Venice  and  elsewhere. 

Portia  remained  bending  over  her  work,  lost  in  thought,  but  Nerissa, 
who  was  seated  at  the  embroidery-frame,  assisting  her  lady,  yet  main- 
taining a discreet  silence  in  the  presence  of  the  Count,  now  gave  free 


64 


PORTIA  ; 


course  to  her  usual  liveliness  of  speech.  The  circumstances  of  their 
early  companionship,  the  unrestrained  intercourse  of  the  South  between 
mistress  and  attendant,  the  gay  pleasant  nature  of  Nerissa  herself,  as 
well  as  the  happy  spirits  of  Portia,  all  tended  to  preserve  their  freedom 
and  ease  of  intimacy  little  less  than  that  which  had  subsisted  between 
the  two,  when  children  together. 

44  What  think  you,  madam,  of  your  father’s  story  ?” 

44  That  it  shows  him,  as  I have  known  him  ever,  through  my  cousin 
Bellario’s  knowledge  answered  Portia.  44  The  facts  of  the  tale  showed 
him  to  be,  what  his  modesty  in  the  telling  would  fain  have  hidden — 
ardent,  brave,  and  generous.” 

44  Ay,  that  is  what  he  would  fain  have  had  you  believe  the  Marquis 
to  be,”  said  Nerissa.  44  And  yet  from  the  story  I could  find  no  such 
thing.  The  gallant  was  asleep  when  he  should  have  been  awake,  which 
tells  not'  much  for  his  ardor  ; he  drew  his  sword,  indeed,  but  we  heard 
not  that  he  used  it — or  if  he  did,  it  was  to  save  his  own  life  when  it  was 
hard  beset,  which  is  no  great  argument  of  his  bravery — surely,  any  com- 
mon  sworder  would  do  as  much  ; then  as  for  his  courtesy  and  generosity, 
a galley  that  follows  no  course  but  pleasure,  has  no  appointed  haven  but 
amusement,  its  master  makes  no  wonderful  sacrifice  in  letting  its  sailing- 
orders  be  at  another  man’s  bidding ; and  though  my  lord  the  Count 
talked  of  the  Marquis  and  his  friend’s  discretion  in  respecting  his  grief 
by  leaving  him  in  solitude,  it  seems  they  had  no  thought  of  moderating 
their  own  gayety  and  revelry.” 

44  The  hero  of  the  story  seems  to  have  won  no  favor  of  you,  Nerissa,” 
said  her  mistress. 

44  None,  lady ; and  yet  I fancy  your  father  intended  that  his  hero 
should  seem  one  in  your  eyes,  whatever  he  might  in  mine.  But  we 
shall  see  what  he  is  like,  when  the  festival  brings  the  Marquis  of  Mont- 
ferrat,  with  the  rest,  to  Belmont.” 

And  now  the  thought  of  this  approaching  festival  engaged  every 
member  of  the  household,  that  due  splendor  and  effect  might  preside  in 
all  its  arrangements  to  do  honor  to  two  such  interesting  occasions,  as  the 
return  of  Count  Guido  to  his  patrimony  of  Belmont,  and  the  presenta- 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


65 


tion  of  his  beautiful  daughter  to  the  ancient  friends  of  the  family.  Bel- 
lario  was  entreated  to  be  present,  that  they  might  have  the  delight  of 
seeing  him  lend  weight  and  honor  to  the  reception  of  the  guests,  by  the 
illustrious  and  learned  reputation  of  his  name. 

It  may  well  be  believed  that  this  tender  friend  himself  eagerly 
seized  this  occasion  of  beholding  his  Portia’s  first  entrance  upon  the 
arena  of  life  ; of  marking  how  she  should  put  into  practice  those  maxims 
he  had  instilled,  how  remember  those  precepts  he  had  inculcated,  how 
act  upon  those  principles  he  had  implanted.  He  longed  to  see  how  her 
native  dignity  would  support  her  through  such  a trial  to  her  modesty 
as  the  first  introduction  to  so  large  an  assemblage  of  distinguished  per- 
sons would  needs  be ; he  longed  to  see  her  courtesy  have  wide  field,  her 
wit  free  play,  her  beauty  extended  admiration,  her  graces  universal 
acknowledgment. 

His  love  was  no  less  ardent  than  her  father’s  ; for  while  Guido’s  was 
a sort  of  rapturous  fondness  towards  this  child  of  affection,  Bellario’s 
partook  of  esteem  and  regard  for  those  intrinsic  qualities  which  he  knew 
her  to  possess,  and  which  he  had  watched  and  cherished  from  their 
earliest  germ  to  their  fullest  development.  It  was  with  almost  equal 
pride  and  delight  therefore,  that  these  two  loving  guardians  beheld  the 
object  of  their  tenderest  thoughts  fulfil  all  that  even  they  could  have 
anticipated  of  excellence  in  her  own  person  and  demeanor,  while  she 
won  universal  homage  from  those  around.  The  ladies  commended  her 
modest  dignity  and  self-possession,  expressing  their  hope  that  it  would 
not  be  long  ere  they  drew  amongst  them  so  bright  an  ornament  as  she 
would  prove  to  their  Venetian  circle;  the  noblemen,  one  and  all  con- 
gratulated the  happy  father  of  so  fair  and  accomplished  a maiden ; and 
the  young  gallants  vied  with  each  other  in  adulation,  compliments, 
attentions,  and  endeavors  to  attract  her  regard. 

Among  these  latter,  the  foremost  was  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat. 
He  at  once  placed  himself  among  the  rank  of  her  avowed  admirers ; 
and  from  the  marked  courtesy  and  warmth  of  the  reception  with  which 
her  father  had  welcomed  him,  he  seemed  to  have  already  gained  a priority 
$f  claim  and  advantage  above  his  fellows.  Of  this  superiority  he  seemed 


66 


PORTIA  ; 


fully  conscious,  from  the  air  of  triumph  and  assured  success  that 
sparkled  in  his  eyes  when  he  addressed  her,  and  which  pervaded  his 
manner  towards  them.  It  shone  insinuatingly  and  languishingly  in  his 
looks  to  her;  it  flashed  haughtily  and  defyingly  upon  them. 

Nerissa,  who  leaned  upon  the  back  of  her  lady’s  seat  (which  was  in 
one  of  the  alcoves  in  the  grounds,  and  formed  a sort  of  sylvan  throne 
for  her  to  receive  her  train  of  admirers,  anxious  to  tender  their  homage 
to  her  charms,  and  pay  their  court  to  her  good  graces),  found  early  occa- 
sion to  whisper  : — “ Your  father’s  report  of  the  handsome  looks  of  the 
hero  of  his  story,  is  as  false  as  his  estimation  of  his  other  qualities. 
The  Marquis  is  scarce  better  looking  than  your  ladyship’s  musicians  : 
who,  like  their  brethren,  the  singing-birds,  have  the  plainer  the  exterior, 
the  better  their  song.” 

“ Nay,”  returned  Portia  in  the  same  tone,  u the  prejudice  you  took, 
even  ere  you  saw  the  Marquis,  lets  you  render  him  but  scant  justice. 
He  is  handsome,  but  he  knows  it  too  well.  His  vanity  mars  his  straight 
nose,  his  arrogance  blurs  his  smooth  complexion,  his  conceit  puts  out  his 
eyes,  and  I can  hardly  see  his  good  looks  for  his  assurance.” 

“ There  is  one  among  the  company,  who  surpasses  him  in  good  looks 
a hundredfold,  to  my  thinking,”  said  Nerissa;  “ the  young  cavalier  in 
the  murrey  doublet,  yonder,  who  is  listening  to  something  that  the 
Marquis  is  telling.  Do  you  see  him  whom  I mean,  Madam  ? Such 
eyes  as  those  are  worthy  a lady’s  look,  and  the  mouth  seems  as  if  it 
could  say  something  worth  her  hearing  ; which  I’m  sure  is  more  than 
can  be  said  for  my  lord  Marquis’s  eyes  and  mouth.” 

Portia  answered  not,  but  Nerissa  could  see  that  her  mistress  had 
distinguished  the  gentleman,  for  she  was  looking  steadily  upon  his  face, 
which  was  slightly  averted,  and  presented  only  its  profile  to  her  gaze. 

Nerissa  tripped  away  from  her  lady,  to  try  and  learn  who  he  was  ; 
and  soon  heard  that  he  was  the  Lord  Bassanio,  one  of  the  friends  and 
associates  of  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat. 

“ They  are  two  foolish  young  men,”  continued  her  informant,  who 
was  a grey-headed  old  gentleman,  one  of  the  guests  ; “ they  try  who 
can  spend  their  money  fastest  and  least  wisely.  Even  the  princely  for- 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


67 


tune  which  the  Marquis  inherited  from  his  worthy  father,  is  speedily 
dwindling  ; and  as  for  the  young  Lord  Bassanio,  it  is  whispered  that  he 
must  shortly  he  ruined  by  such  a perpetual  round  of  extravagance  as 
he  indulges  in,  to  please  this  friend  of  his,  whom  he  emulates  in  all  his 
follies  though  not  in  his  vices.  Bassanio  bears  an  unblemished  reputa- 
tion for  honor  and  integrity,  while  the  Marquis ” 

The  old  gentleman  paused,  and  Nerissa  could  extract  no  further  in- 
formation from  him,  respecting  the  objects  of  her  curiosity.  But  this 
was  now  thoroughly  roused ; and  she  determined  to  spare  no  pains  to 
satisfy  it  entirely.  The  more  she  saw  of  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat, 
the  more  did  she  find  the  prejudice  she  had  originally  conceived  against 
him,  strengthen  and  increase ; and  the  more  she  saw  of  the  Count  di 
Belmonte’s  conduct  towards  this  young  nobleman,  the  more  did  she  feel 
confirmed  in  the  surmise  she  had  at  first  formed,  that  he  intended  him 
to  win  his  way  to  the  good  graces  of  Portia,  and  to  become  eventually 
his  son-in-law.  She  resolved  to  communicate  her  suspicions  to  Doctor 
Bellario,  that  his  wiser  counsel  might  decide. 

She  found  that  his  observation  had  led  him  to  much  the  same  con- 
clusions with  her  own ; but,  merely  commending  her  vigilance  and  pru- 
dence, and  cautioning  her  against  speaking  farther  on  the  matter  to  any 
one  beside  himself,  he  bade  her  rely  upon  him  for  the  necessary  inqui- 
ries, and  for  an  ultimate  satisfactory  termination. 

Before  he  quitted  Belmont,  Bellario  took  occasion  to  speak  to  his 
friend  upon  the  subject  of  this  new  acquaintance,  the  Marquis  of  Mont- 
ferrat. 

Guido,  with  his  usual  warmth  of  manner,  dwelt  upon  the  many  ex- 
cellencies that  distinguished  this  young  gentleman  ; repeated  the  origin 
of  their  acquaintance  in  testimony  of  the  bravery  and  generosity  of  his 
character  ; and  said  that  all  he  had  since  seen  of  him  confirmed  his  ad- 
miration of  his  personal  qualities. 

“ Be  quite  sure,  my  dear  friend,  that  these  personal  qualities  are  not 
the  only  ones  that  distinguish  him  replied  Bellario  ; “ ascertain  that 
his  handsome  face  and  figure  be  not  his  only  graces  ; and  that  the  ex- 
tent of  his  worth  exists  not  solely  in  your  generosity  of  imagination— 
which  has  faith  for  every  excellence  in  others.” 


68 


PORTIA : 


“ And  are  not  you  lawyers  apt  to  be  too  skeptical  in  the  existence  of 
human  goodness  ?”  asked  Guido,  smiling.  u Do  you  not  too  often  ima* 
gine  every  stranger  an  enemy  till  you  know  him  ?” 

“ On  the  contrary,  we  would  have  every  man  believed  innocent,  till 
he  prove  guilty ;”  replied  Bellario  in  the  same  manner.  “ But,”  resumed 
he  in  his  original  graver  tone,  “ for  Portia’s  sake,  be  quite  sure  he  is 
worthy  her  regard,  before  you  introduce  him  too  frequently  or  too  en- 
couragingly to  her  notice.” 

“ He  is  to  be  here  again  in  a few  days  by  my  invitation  ;”  replied 
Guido.  “ I asked  him  to  spend  some  time  with  us.  He  is  the  son  of  a 
most  worthy  father,  a scion  of  a most  noble  and  honorable  family,  and 
he  himself  is  an  accomplished  and  right  gallant  gentleman.  You  surely 
do  him  wrong,  to  misdoubt  that  he  is  all  he  seems ; and  if  he  be  all  he 
seems,  he  would  form  no  unfitting  match,  even  for  our  Portia.” 

“ He  must  be  worthy  indeed,  who  deserves  her ;”  was  all  Bedario’s 
reply ; for  he  resolved  to  say  no  more,  till  he  could  speak  with  better 
knowledge.  He  therefore  bade  his  friends  adieu,  and  took  his  depar- 
ture, determined  to  lose  no  time  in  obtaining  accurate  information  rela- 
tive to  the  character  and  habits  of  the  Marquis  of  Montferrrat. 

Belmont  had  scarcely  time  to  recover  its  wonted  serenity  of  aspect, 
after  the  departure  of  the  bevy  of  visitors  who  had  attended  the  late 
festival,  when  the  young  Marquis  and  his  train  returned,  and  by  their 
arrival  again  thronged  its  tranquil  precincts  with  gay  equipages,  horses, 
hounds,  hawks,  and  troops  of  liveried  attendants. 

His  retinue  was  so  numerous,  and  its  appointments  so  costly,  that  it 
showed  like  that  of  a sovereign  prince,  rather  than  that  of  a private  gen- 
tleman. But  in  this  profusion,  the  Count  beheld  only  evidences  of  a 
magnificent  taste  on  the  part  of  the  Marquis  de  Montferrat,  and  an  ad- 
ditional instance  of  the  refinement  and  luxury  which  directed  the 
expenditure  of  a rich  young  nobleman. 

On  Portia,  all  this  display  seemed  to  produce  little  effect ; any  more 
than  the  flattering  importunities,  compliments,  and  assiduous  attentions 
with  which  he  personally  besieged  her.  She  received  all  his  admiring 
speeches  with  either  a lofty  acquiescence,  as  if  homage  were  a part  of 


THE  HEIRESS  OP  BELMONT. 


69 


her  birthright ; or  with  a sportive  gayety,  as  if  they  were  mere  idle  gal- 
lantry and  matter  of  trivial  unconcern.  She  heard  all  eulogy  on  her 
beauty  with  sovereign  indifference,  and  treated  all  compliments  to  her 
wit,  as  a challenge  to  exercise  its  least  merciful  powers  on  the  adulator 
himself  Portia,  ever  distinguished  for  courtesy  and  true  dignity,  would 
have  treated  a less  confident  suitor  with  no  such  haughtiness ; but  the 
pertinacity  and  assurance  of  this  Marquis  left  her  scarcely  any  other 
alternative.  He  seemed  determined  not  to  be  repelled ; while  he  con- 
trived that  it  should  appear  as  if  the  strength  of  his  passion  alone  in- 
duced him  to  yield  such  implicit  submission  to  the  caprice  he  deplored. 

This  was  the  light  in  which  his  behavior  appeared  to  the  Count ; 
who  believed  him  to  have  conceived  an  ardent  and  sincere  love  for  his 
Portia. 

Not  so  Nerissa;  who,  in  witnessing  any  of  these  instances  of  the 
suitor’s  paraded  deference,  would  not  fail  to  remark,  that  where  a man 
accepted  with  undue  passiveness  the  tyranny  of  his  mistress,  he  not  un- 
frequently  did  so  with  the  view  of  securing  a slave  in  his  future  wife. 

But  at  length  the  increasing  scorn  with  which  Portia  treated  the  dis- 
tasteful assiduity  of  the  Marquis,  struck  her  father  as  being  beyond  the 
gay  disdain  which  ladies  are  sometimes  accustomed  to  affect  towards 
their  wooers ; and  he  was  one  evening  walking  in  the  avenue,  his 
thoughts  employed  with  this  subject,  when  a messenger  approached  at  a 
smart  gallop,  and  seeing  the  Count,  placed  a letter  in  his  hands,  and 
rode  on. 

Guido  read  as  follows : 

“ Dear  friend  and  brother, 

I possess  undoubted  proofs  that  the  Marquis  is  a notorious 
and  confirmed  gambler,  and  an  unscrupulous  libertine.  Until  I can 
myself  bring  you  these  proofs,  believe  that  this  accusation  is  not  made 
lightly,  or  without  sufficient  warrant.  Suffer  not  such  a presence 
longer  to  sully  the  pure  atmosphere  of  Belmont ; nor  let  a too  late  heed 
of  my  intelligence  injure  our  Portia  to  the  latest  term  of  her  life. 

Your  faithfully  devoted 

Bellario.” 


70 


PORTIA  ; 


Guido  remained  for  a moment  as  if  stunned ; then  recovering  him- 
self, he  was  hastening  to  the  house  with  the  thought  of  rescuing  his 
child  instantly  from  the  contamination  of  such  a guest’s  presence ; when 
he  heard  voices  near  which  convinced  him  that  the  Marquis  was  not 
then  with  Portia.  There  was  one  department  of  the  gardens  of  Bel- 
mont which  ran  parallel  with  the  avenue,  and  which  was  divided  from  it 
only  by  a thick  hedge  of  myrtle.  From  immediately  the  other  side  of 
this  hedge  the  voices  proceeded,  and  the  Count  at  once  discovered  that 
they  were  those  of  the  Marquis  and  Nerissa. 

“ Do  not  detain  me,  my  lord  he  heard  the  latter  say,  u my  lady  sent 
me  for  these  roses,  and  she  will  be  impatient  at  my  delay.” 

“ Nay,  fairest  of  waiting-maids,”  replied  the  voice  of  the  Marquis, 
whose  accents  betrayed  that  he  was  flushed  with  wine,  u do  not  imitate 
the  airs  of  that  dignified  piece  of  frost-work,  your  mistress,  but  listen 
while  I tell  you  how  far  you  transcend  her  in  beauty.  By  heaven  ! 
were  she  not  heiress  of  Belmont,  she  would  seem  but  a paltry  weed  to 
you,  my  flower  of  loveliness  !” 

“ Good  my  lord  gardener,  let  both  the  weed  and  the  flower  alone ; 
they  neither  of  them  seek  to  be  your  prize-blossoms,  I’ll  warrant  you ;” 
replied  Nerissa,  with  her  usual  vivacity  ; but  the  next  moment  she  added 
in  increasing  alarm,  “ let  go  my  hands,  my  lord !” 

u Not  till  I have  gathered  some  of  the  flower’s  fragrance  from  its 

blooming  cup, — -those  rosy  lips,”  he  cried ; “ not  till  I have  said ” 

' “ Say  what  you  please,  my  lord  Marquis,  but  do  not  hold  me ; let 
me  go  !” 

“ Hear  me  say  this,  then he  suddenly  stooped,  and  whispered  in 
her  ear. 

“ Foul  villain  lord  !”  she  exclaimed  vehemently  ; and  the  next  instant 
uttered  a piercing  scream. 

The  Count  flung  open  a small  wicket  gate  that  led  through  the  myrtle 
hedge,  and  stood  before  them 

The  Marquis  quitted  his  grasp  of  Nerissa,  and  made  a faint  attempt 
at  some  laughing  excuse  ; but  he  read  in  the  stern  countenance  of  the 
father,  that  the  gross  insult  of  his  behavior  was  discovered. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


7i 


“Return  to  the  house,  Nerissa,”  said  the  Count  after  a pause,  “ and 
desire  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat’s  servants  to  assemble  their  master’s 
retinue,  and  prepare  his  equipage,  as  he  intends  quitting  Belmont  imme- 
diately. Your  lordship  will  excuse  this  abrupt  leave-taking,”  added  he, 
“when  I inform  you  that  I have  overheard  your  late  conversation  with 
my  daughter’s  waiting-maid,  and  that  I have  good  authority  for  believing 
that  to  the  arts  of  a seducer,  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat  adds  other  ac- 
complishments equally  opposed  to  the  qualifications  I require  in  a friend 
or  guest.” 

He  bowed  haughtily,  turning  on  his  heel,  as  he  concluded ; while  the 
Marquis  returned  his  bow  as  haughtily,  ;n  silence,  and,  hastening  away, 
in  less  than  half  an  hour  had  quitted  Belmont  for  ever. 

Count  Guido  remained  in  bitter  reverie.  “ So  much  for  my  perspi- 
cacity,” thought  he,  “ in  judging  of  the  qualities  of  the  man  I chose  for 
a friend,  and  whom  I might  have  gone  on  to  wish  should  be  my  son-in- 
law, — my  Portia’s  husband  ! And  to  a mere  trick  of  fancy,  to  a poor 
credulity,  which  Bellario  would  fain  call  generosity,  and  faith  in  good- 
ness, because  it  characterizes  me, — to  this  miserable  blindness  of  mine, 
might  my  child  have  been  sacrificed  ! It  was  just  such  blinded  judg- 
ment that  led  me  to  cast  away  the  means  of  consolation  vouchsafed  by 
Heaven,  and  fly  from  the  fresh  well-spring  of  joy  contained  in  my  infant 
daughter,  to  bury  myself  in  arid  oriental  solitude.  Little  has  my  own 
poor  judgment  bested  me  in  my  course  through  life.  Better  to  refer  all 
things  to  chance,  even  things  of  greatest  moment,  than  decide  them  by 
so  erring,  so  worthless  a guide,  as  judgment  of  mine.  Chance  once  be- 
friended me  beyond  all  the  judgment  I ever  exercised.  It  was  chance 
that  determined  my  return,  and  led  me  to  the  first  beholding  of  my  love, 
my  sainted  Portia.  And  shall  not  chance  prove  a better  trust  than 
judgment  V1 

He  lingered  in  such  dark  thoughts  of  bitterness  and  self-reproach, 
until  at  length  his  daughter  came  to  seek  him,  wooing  him  to  return 
with  her  to  the  house,  lest  too  late  wandering  beneath  the  trees  in  the 
night  air  should  injure  his  health,  which  had  never  been  strong  since 
the  period  of  his  absence.  Long  fasts,  neglect,  gnawing  sorrow,  during 


7 2 


PORTIA ; 


his  sojourn  in  the  desert ; with,  latterly,  a restless  desire  for  return 
thence,  had  totally  undermined  his  constitution,  rendering  him  the 
wasted,  worn,  altered  being,  whom  his  friend  had  failed  to  recognize  on 
his  return  home,  for  the  once  blooming,  animated  Guido  di  Belmonte. 
The  reaction  of  delight,  in  discovering  his  daughter  to  be  so  fertile  a 
source  of  happiness,  had  at  first  exercised  a salutary  effect;  but  now  his 
slowly-engendered  malady  assumed  a more  decided  form,  and  his  health 
and  strength  were  evidently  failing. 

He  was  perfectly  aware  of  his  own  declining  state  ; but  his  chief 
anxiety  was  to  prevent  it  from  being  perceived  by  his  daughter ; he  care- 
fully withheld  from  her  his  sleepless  nights,  his  unequal  pulse,  and  the 
constant  fever  that  consumed  him.  He  made  ceaseless  pretexts  to  veil 
his  loss  of  appetite,  his  varying  spirits,  his  parching  thirst,  from  her  ob- 
servation ; and  when  he  noted  her  affectionate  eye  dwelling  upon  the  wan 
and  wasted  cheek,  when  he  felt  her  fresh  palm  linger  inquiringly  upon 
his  thin  burning  hand,  or  with  fond  solicitude  her  look  would  minutely 
question  the  tokens  she  dared  not  believe  she  saw  of  illness  and  decay, 
he  would  rouse  himself  to  evade  her  suspicions,  to  dissipate  her  fears. 

In  order  the  more  effectually  to  do  this,  he  made  a strong  effort  to 
carry  out  a resolution  he  had  for  some  time  entertained,  of  taking  her 
himself  to  Venice,  to  introduce  her  to  the  several  families  of  distinc- 
tion, who  had  urged  Portia  and  himself  to  return  the  visit  paid  to 
Belmont  on  the  occasion  of  the  festival  there.  He  was  desirous  that 
she  should  form  some  valuable  friendships,  which  might  support  her  in 
that  sad  period  when  he  himself  should  be  compelled  to  quit  her. 
He  knew  that  she  would  always  possess  a father  in  Bellario ; but 
he  was  anxious  to  smooth  the  way  for  that  generous  friend  himself,  by 
establishing  those  relations,  which  he  would  best  wish  her  to  form  in  the 
world. 

He  felt,  too,  that  this  would  afford  him  an  opportunity  of  accom- 
plishing a project  which  had  occurred  to  him  in  that  self-communing 
he  had  lately  held  with  regard  to  chance  and  judgment.  Impetuous 
ever,  in  his  nature,  his  sensitive  conscience  had  lately  yielded  to  feverish 
promptings  and  rash  fancies,  and  he  now  conceived  a scheme  as  eccen 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


73 


trie  in  its  aim,  as  his  former  exercise  of  judgment  had  been  hasty  and 
defective. 

He  determined  that  while  he  was  in  Venice  he  would  order  to  be 
constructed  three  caskets,  severally  made  of  gold,  silver,  and  lead ; and 
that  on  the  choice  of  these  caskets  should  rest  a decision  of  dearest 
moment.  In  one  of  them  he  resolved  to  inclose  the  portrait  of  his 
daughter,  and  whosoever  of  her  suitors  should  choose  the  casket  con- 
taining her  picture,  should  be  her  appointed  husband.  In  devising  this 
mode  of  election,  he  seemed  to  give  chance  the  full  weight  of  the  de- 
cision ; but  in  the  carrying  out  of  his  plan,  it  will  hereafter  be  seen  that 
judgment  on  the  part  of  him  who  should  choose  from  the  caskets  was 
involved  in  the  election  itself. 

An  early  day  was  appointed  for  their  departure  from  Belmont. 
Portia,  delighted  to  find  her  father  in  sufficient  health  and  spirits  for 
such  a visit,  anticipated  her  introduction  to  Venice,  with  all  the  plea- 
sure and  eagerness  usual  to  a young  mind  about  to  enter  for  the  first 
time  upon  so  new  and  brilliant  a scene.  Their  noble  friends  vied  with 
each  other,  who  best  should  contribute  to  render  the  welcome  of  the 
Count  di  Belmonte  and  his  daughter  gay  and  attractive ; and  all  ex- 
hibited rival  splendor  and  variety  of  amusement  to  entertain  such 
honored  guests.  Each  day  some  new  pastime  was  proposed  ; each  day 
some  diversity  of  sport,  some  ingenuity  of  device,  some  reunion  of  illus- 
trious people,  some  gay  masking,  some  daylight  excursion,  or  nightly 
revelry. 

On  one  occasion,  the  grand  canal  presented  a scene  of  unsurpassed 
brilliancy  and  animation ; a boat-race  was  to  take  place,  a distance  was 
appointed,  prizes  were  instituted,  and  all  Venice  thronged  to  behold  the 
issue  of  the  contention.  Boats  of  all  sizes  and  descriptions  crowded 
hither;  craft  of  every  kind  pushed  and  jostled  ; gondolas  glided  to  and 
fro  ; boatmen  shouted  and  called ; gayly-dressed  ladies  and  gallants 
smiled  and  flirted  ; draperies  of  every  vivid  color  depended  from  win- 
dows; balconies  were  filled  with  gazers;  steps  and  doorways,  like  the 
entrances  to  beehives,  supported  their  clusters,  and  swarmed  with  living 
creatures. 


74 


PORTIA  ; 


The  appointed  boats  that  were  to  engage  in  the  race,  were  of  pecu- 
liarly small  plain  construction,  well  built  for  making  their  way  over 
the  water,  and  each  occupied  by  two  men  only,  who  impelled  them  in 
the  manner  peculiar  to  the  Venetian  boatmen — pushing  rather  than 
rowing. 

These  contesting  boats  were  singularly  in  contrast  with  others  of  a 
larger  size,  which  were  hung  with  silken  festoons,  and  glittered  with 
gold  and  silver  fringe,  waved  with  crested  plumes,  and  were  richly 
adorned  and  emblazoned  with  the  arms  of  the  several  families  to  whom 
they  belonged.  The  rowers  or  gondoliers  in  each,  varied  in  number,  but 
were  dressed  in  livery  of  a superb  though  singular  kind ; being  of  varie- 
gated and  fantastically  assorted  colors  ; oddly  fancied  stuffs,  and  forming 
quaint  devices ; sometimes  a set  of  husbandmen  with  straw  hats,  flowers, 
floating  ribbons,  and  rustic  attire  ; sometimes  a band  of  green  foresters ; 
and  sometimes  a row  of  nondescript  beings  with  red  arms,  yellow  bodies, 
and  blue  legs. 

In  some  of  these  decorated  vessels  (which  generally  contained  the 
patrons  and  abettors  of  the  race)  might  be  seen  lounging  at  the  prow, 
extended  on  cushions,  some  representative  of  a noble  house,  who  by  his 
negligent  attitude,  and  affectedly  abstracted  look,  seemed  willing  to 
afford  others  the  gratification  of  contemplating  his  fine  person  and 
studied  dress.  Many  of  these  gallants  indulged  in  only  a furtive  glance 
at  the  beauty  that  surrounded  them,  and  it  seemed  to  be  a sort  of  fashion 
among  them  to  affect  being  the  admired  instead  of  the  admirers  on  this 
occasion. 

In  one  of  these  boats,  there  reclined  a young  Venetian,  who  was  re- 
markable, even  among  so  much  surrounding  brightness,  for  the  splendor 
of  his  dress,  the  costliness  of  his  boat-decorations,  the  whimsicality  of 
his  men’s  attire,  and  the  gravity  with  which  he  observed  the  affected 
fashion  alluded  to  just  now.  He  maintained  an  air  of  profound  abstrac- 
tion, as  if  noways  concerned  in  the  busy  scene  around  him,  and  looked 
like  a recumbent  statue  rather  than  a living  man.  As  one  in  the  pro- 
cession of  boats  which  glided  idly  backwards  and  forwards  in  mid-stream 
before  the  race  began,  his  vessel  passed  and  repassed  the  galley  in  which 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


75 


the  Count  di  Belmonte  and  his  daughter  sat  with  their  friends  to  behold 
the  pageant ; and  in  the  downcast  eyes  and  listless  figure  of  this  young 
gallant,  Portia  rec<Jgnized  the  young  gentleman  pointed  out  by  Nerissa 
among  the  company  at  the  Belmont  festival  as  being  so  superlatively 
handsome. 

6i  His  affectation  would  spoil  him  altogether,  but  that  it  seems  merely 
assumed  in  conformity  with  the  prevailing  mode  here,”  thought  she.  u I 
will  look  at  him  once  more,  when  his  vessel  comes  round  again.” 

She  was  so  intently  watching  his  return,  that  she  paid  little  heed  to 
an  old  lady,  a member  of  the  house  of  Manfrini,  who  had  taken  a great 
fancy  to  her,  and  who  was  endeavoring  to  entertain  her  with  a descrip- 
tion of  the  various  persons  she  recognized.  “ Yonder  is  Signor  Luigi  and 
liis  three  fair  daughters,”  said  the  old  lady ; they  are  saluting  that 
grave  gentleman  in  the  sober  suit,  who  is  no  less  a personage  than  Signor 
Antonio,  whom  my  lord  calls  the  ‘ royal  merchant.’  He  is  as  worthy  as 
he  is  wealthy,  and  does  a world  of  good  with  his  riches.  They  say  he 
is  very  generous  to  poor  struggling  tradesmen,  and  tender  to  unfortunate 
debtors.  Moreover  he  has  good  blood  in  his  veins,  and  is  of  gentle  birth. 
There  goes  that  pleasant  scapegrace,  Signor  Gratiano  ; and  in  the  farther 
boat  is  young  Signor  Lorenzo,  with  two  of  his  friends.  Yonder  is  the  gal- 
ley of  his  highness  the  prince  of  Morocco,  who  has  lately  arrived  in  this 
city  with  his  train,  and  who,  I understand,  is  so  courteous  and  pleasant- 
spoken,  that  you  forget  he  is  black.  But  for  my  part,  I can’t  fancy  a 
black  man  could  be  so  agreeable  as  a white  man ; I own  I have  preju- 
dices, and  that’s  one  of  mine, — I hate  people  of  color.  Talking  of 
prejudices,  there’s  that  detestable  old  Jew  ! How  dare  he  come  among 
us,  I should  like  to  know  ? But  that’s  one  of  the  drawbacks  on  such  an 
occasion  as  this.  It  allows  of  so  mixed  an  assemblage.  A paltry  traf- 
ficker may  elbow  a magnifico,  or  a J ew  usurer  associate  with  us  Chris- 
tians ! They  say  the  villanous  dog  has  a pretty  black-eyed  daughter 
whom  he  keeps  shut  up  in  his  miserable  den  of  a house,  instead  of  bring- 
ing the  poor  thing  out  to  have  a peep  at  such  a sight  as  this  ! Ah,  here 
comes  young  Lord  Bassanio  again  ; he  is  a true  gentleman  ; and  my  lord 
says,  a brave  soldier,  and  an  excellent  scholar,  for  all  he  is  playing  off 


76 


PORTIA  ; 


such  coxcombical  airs  to-day.  I am  sorry  to  hear  that  he  is  ruining  his 
fortune  with  the  extravagant  course  he  is  running.  Why,  the  equipment 

of  that  vessel,  I should  say,  never  cost  him  less  than-^ ■” 

What  the  gossip-loving  old  lady  might  have  gone  on  farther  to  say, 
Portia  knew  not,  for  at  this  moment,  her  father  leaned  forward  to  accost 
the  young  gentleman,  who,  starting  from  his  abstracted  condition,  and 
seeing  who  spoke  to  him,  recognized  the  Count  with  a respectful  earnest- 
ness and  a lively  warmth  of  manner  that  offered  a remarkable  contrast 
with  his  previous  apathy.  As  the  young  man  stood  there  with  his  hat 
courteously  removed,  and  his  attitude  full  of  grace  and  deference,  reply- 
ing to  her  father’s  salutation,  Portia  thought  Nerissa’s  estimate  was 
certainly  correct;  and  when,  a moment  after,  the  young  Venetian  hap- 
pened to  raise  his  eyes  to  hers,  he  found  them  fixed  upon  him  with  the* 
complacency  inspired  by  such  a thought.  Several  times  again  in  the 
course  of  the  day  he  met  that  look  ; and  when,  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
race,  he  retired  from  the  contention  as  one  of  the  losers,  he  felt  consoled 
by  the  sympathetic  glance  of  interest  that  once  more  flashed  upon  him 
from  those  expressive  eyes.  A thought  for  the  first  time  thrilled  through 
the  heart  of  Bassanio,  that  had  he  not  injured  his  fortune  by  a hitherto 
idle  and  spendthrift  course,  he  might  have  aspired  to  obtain  a far  more 
glorious  prize  than  the  one  awarded  to  the  winning  boat. 

u What  if  I consult  with  my  friend  and  kinsman,  Antonio,  upon  the 
means  of  repairing  my  fortunes  ?”  thought  he.  u Even  were  I to  entreat 
of  his  generosity  to  bestow  upon  me  a fitting  sum  to  equip  me  for  enter- 
ing the  lists  that  I might  contend  for  her  favor — his  kindness  hath  that 
extent,  I am  certain.  I will  think  of  it ; meantime,  I vow  to  undertake 
a pilgrimage  to  Belmont,  at  some  not  very  distant  day.” 

After  a gay  and  pleasant  interval  spent  at  Venice,  the  father  and 
daughter  prepared  to  return  ; and  Portia  had  the*  satisfaction  of  remark- 
ing, that  instead  off  the  injurious  effects  which  might  perhaps  have  been 
dreaded  from  such  unusual  excitement  and  exertion  upon  the  weakened 
frame  of  her  father,  the  change  seemed,  on  the  contrary,  to  have  been 
beneficial.  As  they  proceeded  homewards  in  their  coach,  which  met 
them  on  the  mainland,  after  ferrying  across,  the  Count  spoke  playfully 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


77 


with  his  daughter  of  their  late  scenes  of  gayety  ; and  in  his  sprightly  tone 
and  cheerful  glance,  Portia  read  more  healthful  symptoms  than  she  had 
noted  for  many  a day. 

“ And  of  all  those  stores  of  splendor,  of  all  those  bright  gayeties,  I 
have  brought  you  away  no  richer  token  than  this  slight  bauble,”  said  he, 
placing  a ruby  ring  upon  her  finger,  “ but  it  will  serve  to  remind  my 
Portia  of  a pleasant  holiday  with  her  loving  father ; and  such  thoughts 
I know  she  prizes  above  jewels  the  most  rare  and  precious  that  might  be 
found  in  all  Venice.” 

His  daughter  kissed  it  fondly,  as  well  as  the  hand  that  placed  it  on 
hers,  and  said  : — <u  It  shall  never  quit  my  finger,  dear  father.” 

“ Nay,  you  shall  give  it  some  day  to  him,  who  shall  possess  the  hand 
itself — to  your  husband,  my  Portia.”  And  the  father  unconsciously 
sighed. 

Portia  looked  brightly  in  his  face,  and  said,  till  she  met  with  one 
she  could  love  and  honor  as  she  did  her  father  and  cousin,  she  cared  not 
to  behold  the  man  who  was  to  claim  the  ring ; but  that  as  it  was  not 
likely  she  should  ever  encounter  such  a being,  she  might  safely  engage 
to  endow  him  with  the  ring,  with  herself,  and  with  all  she  possessed, 
whenever  so  superlative  a knight  should  appear.  , 

Her  father  pressed  the  hand  that  lay  in  his,  and  looked  proudly  into 
the  beaming  countenance  that  was  raised  to  his  own.  He  seemed  about 
to  say  something  earnestly  to  her,  when  he  perceived  that  the  carriage 
was  approaching  a group  of  ruins  which  lay  on  the  confines  of  the  Bel- 
mont domain,  and  he  leaned  from  the  window  to  regard  them.  Portia, 
observing  the  look,  called  softly  to  the  attendants  to  pause ; and  they 
remained  a few  moments  in  contemplation  of  a scene  as  lovely  as  it  was 
replete  with  gentle  memories  for  those  two  who  now  gazed  upon  its 
beauty. 

The  spot  was  bathed  in  the  gorgeous  light  of  the  setting  sun,  and  the 
stillness  of  the  evening  was  so  profound  that  the  beating  of  their  hearts 
might  almost  have  been  heard,  as  the  father  and  daughter  sat  there  in 
silent  yet  perfect  sympathy. 

Suddenly,  a groan,  as  of  one  in  pain,  reached  their  ear.  They  listen- 


78 


PORTIA  ; 


ed.  Another  ; and  then  another.  “ Open  the  door,  Stephano  !”  called 
the  voice  of  Portia  to  one  of  the  attendants.  Ci  Let  me  get  out  of  the 
coach.  I will  see  who  this  sufferer  is,  dear  father,  and  return  to  you 
immediately,”  added  she  ; and  scarcely  waiting  for  his  reply,  she  bounded 
from  the  carriage-step. 

“ Follow  your  young  mistress,  Stephano ; and  you,  Kico ;”  said  the 
Count.  “ Balthazar,  and  the  rest,  may  remain  here.”  And  he  watched 
the  light  figure  of  his  child,  as  Portia,  intent  upon  her  charitable  quest, 
pressed  eagerly  forward  in  the  direction  whence  the  sound  had  seemed 
to  proceed. 

At  the  foot  of  an  aged  tree  that  cast  its  broad  shadows  among  the 
broken  columns  and  fractured ' arches  of  the  ruins,  which  formed  the 
remains  of  some  antique  temple,  and  lay  scattered  in  classic  fragments 
around,  she  found  a man  stretched  upon  the  grass,  apparently  in  the 
last  stage  of  exhaustion.  He  wore  the  coarse  and  travel-stained  garb 
of  a pilgrim;  and  by  his  side  lay  the  staff,  and  hat  sewn  with  cockle- 
shells, that  bespoke  his  being  one  of  those  pious  wayfarers. 

Portia  addressed  herself  to  the  succor  of  this  unfortunate ; bidding 
one  of  the  attendants,  who  had  been  sent  after  her,  return  quickly  that 
he  might  relieve  her  father’s  suspense,  and  bring  back  some  of  the  re- 
storatives that  had  been  placed  in  the  coach  for  the  Count’s  use.  She 
then  desired  Stephano  to  place  himself  beside  the  apparently  dying  man, 
and  to  raise  his  head  upon  his  knee,  while  she  herself  fanned  the  suf- 
ferer’s brow,  and  chafed  his  horny  sun-burnt  hands  with  her  own  deli- 
cate palms. 

As  she  gazed  upon  the  wan  lips,  closed  eyes,  and  contracted  brow  of 
this  poor  creature,  she  could  not  but  call  to  mind  the  sufferings  of  her 
own  father,  when  he  too  had  been  an  unhappy  wanderer  upon  the  earth; 
and  her  charitable  anxiety  to  restore  him  became  even  more  strenuous. 
Presently  Bico  arrived,  bearing  with  him  such  remedies,  as  were  not 
long  in  restoring  the  pilgrim  to  himself;  for  it  appeared  that  he  bad 
fainted  from  want,  fatigue,  and  exhaustion ; but  was  so  far  from  being 
in  a dying  state,  that,  with  the  aid  of  the  two  attendants,  he  was  shortly 
able  to  raise  himself,  and  pour  forth  fervent  thanks  to  the  fair  being  who 
had  bestowed  such  timely  succor. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


79 


u Do  not  exhaust  yourself  with  speaking,  good  father,”  said  Portia, 
K but  lean  upon  Rico  and  Stephano,  and  they  will  support  you  as  far  as 
my  coach,  which  will  carry  us  to  Belmont,  where  we  shall  find  food  and 
repose.” 

In  this  manner  they  contrived  to  reach  the  spot  where  she  had  left 
the  Count ; who,  assisting  his  daughter  to  place  her  charge  within  the 
carriage,  bade  the  attendants  proceed  at  a pace  accommodated  to  the 
wanderer’s  aching  limbs.  In  the  course  of  the  drive  home,  they  learned, 
that  he  was  a poor  pilgrim,  returning  from  the  Holy  Land ; that  he  had 
been  endeavoring  to  reach  a neighboring  monastery,  which  lay  two  miles 
from  Belmont,  where  he  might  obtain  hospitality,  but  had  travelled  so 
far  in  the  heat  during  that  and  the  preceding  day,  without  having  been 
able  to  procure  food,  that  he  had  at  length  sunk  fainting  up.  n the  grass 
beneath  the  ruins,  where  he  might  have  perished,  but  for  Portia’s  sea- 
sonable aid. 

u And  now,  methinks,  I could  ask  no  better  fate  of  Heaven,  than  to 
spend  the  remainder  of  my  days  on  that  spot  where  my  opening  eyes 
beheld  that  ministering  angel  of  bounty  concluded  the  pilgrim.  “ In 
such  a hermitage,  I might  calmly  and  peacefully  pass  the  remnant  of 
my  life  in  heavenly  contemplation,  in  lauding  His  mercy  who  sent  her 
thither,  and  in  beseeching  Him  to  grant  her  the  happiness  she  so  richly 
merits.” 

“ And  you  will  let  me  plan  this  hermitage,  and  provide  all  the  ar- 
rangements of  the  cell,  will  you  not,  padre  mio  ?”  asked  Portia,  with  all 
the  elation  of  a young  heart  enjoying  the  pleasure  of  a kindly  deed, — - 
and  which  elation  of  spirit  was  peculiarly  hers.  “ You  will  allow  me  to 
install  this  holy  man  in  the  spot  he  has  himself  chosen  for  his  pious 
retirement,  will  you  not,  my  dear  father  ?” 

“ My  Portia  knows  I can  refuse  her  nothing  ” replied  the  Count ; 
u more  especially  when  she  seeks  to  secure  for  us  so  holy  a neighbor  as 
yourself,  good  father.” 

Accordingly,  when  a day  or  two  had  elapsed,  and  the  worthy  pilgrim 
had  sufficiently  recovered  his  strength,  he  removed  to  the  hermit’s  cell, 
which  was  provided  for  him  among  the  ruins  by  the  permission  of  the 


80 


PORTIA ; 


Count,  and  under  the  immediate  superintendence  of  his  daughter ; and 
so  eagerly,  so  indefatigably,  did  Portia  work  at  these  arrangements,  that 
Nerissa  bantered  her  upon  all  this  zeal  and  ardor  in  behalf  of  a poor 
old  hermit  and  his  cell,  when  she  had  not  found  time  for  one  single 
hour’s  gossip,  to  tell  her  about  Venice,  its  revelries,  its  gallants,  its 
rival  beauties,  its  braveries  of  attire,  its  thousand  attractions,  or  the 
millions  of  broken-hearted  suitors,  whom  she  must  have  left  with  no 
other  resource  than  to  throw  themselves  headlong  into  the  lagune. 

But  Portia’s  ardor  was  not  of  that  kind  which  burns  itself  out  in 
the  first  glow  of  emotion,  upon  the  performance  of  a good  deed ; she 
was  as  steady  as  she  was  warm-hearted,  as  firm  and  consistent  as  gentle 
and  benign.  She  not  only  established  this  venerable  man  in  his  chosen 
retreat ; but  she  ceased  not  to  cheer  and  delight  its  solitude  by  her  oc- 
casional visits  and  kindly  presence,  receiving  in  return  pious  instruction, 
and  interesting  narratives  of  his  former  wandering  life,  in  his  own 
person  furnishing  meek  and  consoling  example  of  patience,  faith,  and 
peace. 

Soon,  she  had  need  indeed  of  consolation.  One  morning,  she  was 
sitting  by  her  father’s  side  in  the  library,  reading  to  him  from  one  of 
his  favorite  volumes,  when  she  suddenly  felt  his  hand,  in  which  hers 
was  locked  twitch  convulsively,  while  his  head,  a moment  afterwards, 
dropped  powerless  upon  the  back  of  the  chair  in  which  he  sat.  She 
leaned  towards  him — he  was  speechless ; but  he  gave  her  one  of  those 
mute  yet  eloquent  looks,  in  which  the  soul  speaks  through  the  eyes. 

“ My  dear,  dear  father !”  With  her  disengaged  hand,  she  hastily 
bared  his  throat,  drew  his  hair  back  from  his  temples,  and  bathed  them 
with  some  essence  which  happened  to  stand  upon  the  library-table 
within  reach. 

Her  first  anxiety  was  to  still  the  fears  that  throbbed  at  her  heart, 
lest  they  might  agitate  her  father,  and  render  herself  less  capable  of 
commanding  thought  and  energy  for  his  assistance ; her  next,  that  she 
might  be  able  to  reach  the  bell  to  summon  help,  for  she  found  she  could 
not  withdraw  her  hand  from  her  father’s  strict  grasp,  which  seemed 
rigid  and  involuntary. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


81 


After  one  cautious  effort,  without  being  able  to  succeed  in  stretch- 
ing her  disengaged  arm  so  far,  she  leaned  towards  his  ear,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice,  which  she  endeavored  to  render  steady  and  calm  : — •“  I am 
about  to  call  aloud,  dear  father  ; do  not  be  alarmed  at  the  noise.”  And 
then  she  called  in  a clear  ringing  tone : — ■“  Balthazar  ! Balthazar  !” 
But  at  this  period  of  the  morning,  few  of  the  servants  were  in  that 
portion  of  the  house ; most  of  them  being  busy  in  the  offices,  and 
dispersed  elsewhere,  knowing  that  this  was  the  hour  when  the  Count 
and  his  daughter  usually  sat  quietly  reading  in  the  library,  not  requir- 
ing their  attendance. 

All  this  passed  through  Portia’s  brain,  in  a strange  reasoning  ivind 
of  calmness,  as  she  stood  there,  vainly  endeavoring  to  make  her  voice 
bring  other  response  than  its  own  echoes.  Between  every  call,  she 
held  her  breath,  that  she  might  catch  the  most  distant  sound  of  ap- 
proaching help  ; but  nothing  could  she  hear,  save  these  vain  echoes 
as  they  travelled  fruitlessly  through  the  long  galleries,  alternated  by  the 
fearful  pauses,  and  the  beating  of  her  own  heart. 

Her  father  seemed  to  comprehend  her  position,  for  he  continued  to 
cast  those  expressive  looks  upon  her  ; though  he  could  articulate  no 
sound,  nor  unclasp  his  fingers  from  the  strict  grasp  they  maintained 
round  those  of  his  daughter. 

She  gazed  into  those  speaking  eyes  which  seemed  striving  to  convey 
some  injunction  to  her,  that  she  might  try  to  read  their  meaning ; and 
she  once  saw  him  attempt  to  raise  his  other  hand,  as  if  in  the  languid 
endeavor  to  make  some  signal,  but  she  could  not  divine  its  import. 

She  whispered  words  of  tenderness,  beseeching  him  not  to  exhaust 
his  strength  by  such  efforts,  while  she  continued  to  bathe  his  temples, 
and  renewed  her  own  attempts  to  summon  help. 

At  length  she  heard  a sound,  at  once  discordant  with  her  present 
feelings,  and  welcome  from  its  assurance  of  aid — Nerissa’s  merry 
laugh  ! Clearly  and  imperatively  once  again  Portia  called.  'Nerissa 
hastened  towards  her  lady’s  voice;  but  the  mirthful  look  and  tone 
with  which  she  entered,  were  stricken  into  dismay  by  what  she 
beheld. 


82 


PORTIA  ; 


Portia,  by  a steadfast  effort,  controlled  her  emotion,  while  she 
desired  Nerissa  to  speed  for  Balthazar  and  other  attendants,  to  dis- 
patch a messenger  for  medical  assistance,  and  another  to  Padua  to 
summon  Bellario  to  Belmont. 

With  the  mastery  of  a well-disciplined  mind,  and  the  fortitude  of  a 
firm,  loving,  unselfish  heart,  she  compelled  herself  to  issue  these  orders 
in  a calm,  almost  unfaltering  tone,  and  to  assist  Balthazar  in  his  at- 
tempts to  alleviate  his  master’s  condition.  The  faithful  servitor 
wished  to  persuade  his  master  to  be  supported  to  his  own  apartment, 
but  at  this  proposal  for  removing  him,  the  features  of  the  Count 
expressed  so  visible  a repugnance,  that  Portia  would  not  permit  it  to 
be  urged. 

“ If  we  could  but  get  my  lord  to  lie  down,  Madam,”  whisp  ered  the 
weeping  Balthazar,  “ 1 feel  sure  that  he  would  be  easier.  My  lord  the 
Count  had  one  of  these  seizures  before — a night  or  two  before  you 
went  to  Venice  ; but  he  would  not  permit  your  ladyship  to  be  informed 
of  it,  because  it  went  off  by  the  dawn  of  morning,  and  he  said  it 
was  nothing,  and  you  should  not  be  made  uneasy  about  such  a 
trifle.” 

Portia  repressed  the  bitter  words  that  arose  to  her  lips,  with  which 
she  felt  inclined  to  reprove  Balthazar  for  having-  concealed  from  her 
so  vital  a secret ; but  she  would  not  permit  herself  to  give  one  thought 
to  regret,  while  she  could  devote  them  to  the  present  succor  of  her 
father.  She  knelt  by  his  side,  and  murmured  softly : — “ Will  my 
father  try  if  lying  down  may  relieve  him  ?” 

There  was  a look  of  acquiescence. 

But  when  Balthazar  and  another  attendant  advanced  to  support 
him  away,  the  same  expression  of  denial  crossed  his  features  as 
before. 

u Will  you  not  let  us  place  you  in  bed,  dearest  father  ?” 

The’ expression  remained  unchanged. 

“ W e think  if  you  were  reclining,  it  would  be  a better  position 
than  as  you  are  now,  dear  father.  Will  you  not  try  to  lie  down  ?” 

His  eyes  resumed  their  eager  look.  * 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


83 


a I think  my  father  objects  to  remove  from  this  room,  Balthazar, 
and  that  he  would  lie  down,  if  a couch  were  made  for  him  here.” 
Portia  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  father’s,  as  she  uttered  these  words, 
and  perceived  unequivocal  tokens  that  she  had  interpreted  his  wishes 
aright. 

The  thought  that  the  love  between  them  enabled  her  thus  to  read 
his  unspoken  desires,  caused  tears  to  spring  from  sudden  joy,  which  had 
been  forbidden  to  the  pangs  of  grief.  A sorrow  may  sometimes  be 
wrestled  with,  and  denied  the  indulgence  of  expression,  when  a tender 
transport  over-masters  resolution  and  will  have  vent  in  sobs. 

As  his  daughter  thus  hung  over  him,  yielding  to  the  emotions  of  her 
heart  for  the  first  time  since  his  attack,  her  father  seemed  equally  clearly 
to  read  the  interpretation  of  his  Portia’s  feelings  ; and  thus  did  true 
and  perfect  love  reveal  to  each,  the  silent  articulation  of  their  mutual 
thought. 

The  attendants  speedily  arranged  one  of  the  library  couches  for  the 
reception  of  the  Count,  and  they  laid  him  softly  down  in  a recumbent 
position ; his  daughter  still  with  her  hand  fast  locked  in  his,  which  could 
not  unclench  its  grasp. 

She  bade  them  lower  the  dark  green  draperies  of  the  nearest  window 
still  more,  over  the  blinds  that  excluded  the  glare  of  the  noontide  sun, 
and  desired  Balthazar  alone  to  remain  in  the  room,  as  she  hoped  her 
father  might  sleep. 

Portia  sat  gazing  upon  that  beloved  face,  listening  to  the  low,  irre- 
gular breathings,  and  striving  to  hush  the  forebodings  that  appalled  her 
with  the  thought  that  she  might  behold  him  die  there,  before  the  phy- 
sician and  surgeon  could  arrive. 

She  struggled  hard  with  the  terrible  fear,  and  dropped  softly  to  her 
knees  by  her  father’s  side,  that  she  might  beseech  strength  and  comfort 
of  her  Father  in  Heaven.  As  she  knelt  meekly  there,  pouring  out  her 
soul  in  prayer  to  the  Almighty  Parent  in  behalf  of  the  earthly  one,  she 
felt  the  hand  that  still  held  hers,  slightly  relax  its  grasp  ; and  a moment 
afterwards,  that  deep,  tender  tone  she  knew  so  well,  and  which  she  had 
almost  despaired  of  ever  hearing  again,  murmured  the  words “ My 
Portia !” 


84 


PORTIA  : 


She  arose  hastily  but  quietly,  and  bent  over  the  couch. 

u Are  we  alone,  my  Portia  ?”  he  said. 

Portia  bade  Balthazar  retire  to  the  ante-room,  but  to  wait  within  call ; 
and  not  to  fail  letting  her  know  when  the  medical  men  should  arrive. 

“We  are  alone  now,  dearest  father,”  said  she. 

“ I have  no  moment  to  lose,”  said  the  Count.  “ This  interval  of 
speech  and  strength  is  mercifully  lent  to  me,  but  it  may  not  last  long,  and 
I dread  lest  I once  more  behold  myself  reduced  to  my  late  torture  of 
impotency  in  speech  and  action,  while  so  much  remains  to  be  said  and 
done  for  the  welfare  of  my  Portia.” 

She  strove  to  tranquillize  him  ; and  besought  him  not  to  let  anxiety 
for  her,  risk  fresh  exertion,  which  might  occasion  relapse. 

He  regarded  not  her  words,  but  proceeded  with  an  eagerness  that 
partook  of  his  old  spirit : — “ Unlock  yonder  cabinet,  my  Portia,  and 
bring  me  the  three  caskets,  with  the  fold  of  sealed  parchment  which  you, 
will  find  beside  them.” 

She  obeyed  his  directions;  fearful  lest  in  endeavoring  to  dissuade 
him  from  the  exertion,  opposition  to  his  wishes  might  produce  worse 
effects  than  submission. 

“ Tell  me  what  words  are  engraven  upon  the  lid  of  each  of  these 
caskets,  my  Portia.” 

“ Upon  the  golden  one  is  inscribed,  c Who  chooseth  me,  shall  gain 
what  many  men  desire  upon  the  silver  one,  { Who  chooseth  me,  shall 
get  as  much  as  he  deserves  and  upon  the  leaden  one,  ‘ Who  chooseth 
me,  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath,’”  replied  she. 

“By  this  parchment  deed,  which  is  a will  I executed  when  in  Yenice, 
my  child,  feeling  even  then  convinced  that  I might  shortly  expect  this 
fatal  summons — I have  provided  that  on  the  choice  of  these  caskets  shall 
depend  your  destiny  in  marriage.  In  one  of  these  caskets  is  locked 
your  picture  ; you  will  find  the  three  corresponding  keys  of  gold,  silver 
and  lead,  in  the  right-hand  drawer  of  the  cabinet.  Of  these  keys  take 
charge  yourself ; you  will  find  specified  in  the  will,  on  what  occasions 
you  are  to  deliver  them  up.  My  original  aim  in  devising  this  scheme, 
on  which  I have  rested  the  decision  of  my  Portia’s  fate,  has  been  some- 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


85 


what  modified  ; but  my  wish  is  still  that  she  promise  to  abide  by  the 
terms  of  my  will.  Yes,”  continued  he,  as  if  to  himself,  and  with  a wild 
earnestness  that  lighted  his  fast-dimming  eyes,  and  lent  a momentary 
energy  to  his  half-extinct  voice,  u I have  learned  to  think  that  thus 
chance  and  judgment  may  be  made  to  aid  each  other,  and  wisely  com- 
bine to  decide  what  else  might  never  justly  be  awarded.  For  who  shall 
deserve  her?  Bellario  truly  said  it.”  He  paused  an  instant;  but 
meeting  the  eye  of  his  Portia,  and  reading  there  her  terror  at  his  wan- 
dering words,  he  strove  to  recall  what  he  wished  especially  to  say  to  her. 
“ ’Tis  for  your  sake,  my  Portia  ; ’tis  best  thus,  believe  it.  Will  you  give 
me  your  promise  ? Do  you  pledge  your  word  to  dispose  of  yourself 
according  to  the  plan  set  forth  in  my  will?” 

“ I vow  solemnly  to  obey  your  will  in  all  things,  my  father  ;”  exclaimed 
Portia. 

A serene  peace  dwelt  upon  his  features  at  her  words,  and  he  feebly 
stretched  his  arms  towards  her.  She  flung  herself  upon  the  bed  beside 
him,  and  tenderly  straining  him  in  the  embrace  he  sought,  she  heard 
him  murmur:  “ Now  happily  I go  to  await  with  her  the  future  coming 
of  our  child — our  Portia.” 

When  Balthazar  came  in  with  the  doctors,  they  found  the  father  and 
daughter  clasped  thus  in  each  other’s  arms ; both  profoundly  still.  But 
the  daughter’s  was  the  stillness  of  a death-like  swoon — the  father’s,  that 
of  death  itself ! 

When  Portia  recovered  from  the  fainting-fit  in  which  her  senses  lay 
steeped,  during  so  lengthened  a period  that  it  alarmed  Nerissa  for  her 
life,  the  first  object  that  met  her  eyes  was  Bellario.  That  dear  and 
tender  friend,  that  devoted  cousin,  was  there  watching  over  her  ; to  hail 
the  first  look  of  returning  consciousness ; to  assist  in  reconciling  her  to 
meet  the  light  of  existence,  now  so  shorn  of  its  beams  for  that  loving 
daughter.  He  was  there  to  temper  the  first  shock  which  the  restored 
sense  of  her  loss  would  surely  bring ; he  was  close  beside  her,  to  lighten 
her  grief  by  sharing  it,  to  console  her  by  his  sympathy,  to  strengthen  her 
by  his  help,  and  to  afford  her  comfort  and  hope  by  his  love,  his  tender- 
ness, his  true  affection. 


PORTIA  ; 


so 

Between  them  there  had  ever  been  perfect  understanding  and  inti- 
mate knowledge  ; and  she  had  scarcely  lost  a truer  father,  than  the  one 
she  possessed  in  Bellario. 

In  his  society  she  learned  to  encounter  the  blow  which  had  befallen 
her,  to  endure  the  daily  sense  of  her  bereavement,  and,  in  time,  to  con- 
vert its  remembrance  into  a source  of  hallowed  memories  rather  than  of 
bitter  regrets.  For,  once  again,  did  this  devoted  friend  make  his  other 
duties  subservient  to  the  exigencies  of  his  Portia’s  welfare;  once  again, 
did  he  dedicate  his  time  and  thoughts  to  Belmont  and  to  her ; once  again 
did  he  constitute  himself  a father  to  this  father-left  young  creature. 
During  the  whole  time  of  her  mourning,  he  never  quitted  her ; conse- 
crating himself  entirely  to  the  task  of  affording  comfort  and  consolation 
by  his  presence,  and  of  cheering  and  strengthening  her  in  that  period  of 
seclusion  and  retirement. 

But  when  more  than  a twelvemonth  had  elapsed,  and  he  had  beheld 
sorrow  succeed  to  despondency,  resignation  to  sorrow,  and  cheerful  hope 
of  one  day  rejoining  her  parents  to  resignation,  he  felt  that  she  ought 
no  longer  to  indulge  in  so  strict  a privacy ; but  that  the  time  had  now 
arrived  for  the  fulfilment  of  her  father’s  will. 

The  terms  of  this  will,  as  regarded  the  heiress  of  Belmont,  were  gen- 
erally known  ; and  it  was  only  in  accordance  with  the  respect  due  to  the 
period  of  her  mourning,  which  she  desired  to  pass  in  complete  seclusion, 
that  the  host  of  suitors,  attracted  by  the  hope  of  winning  so  rich  a prize, 
had  hitherto  refrained  from  entering  the  lists,  and  seeking  to  ascertain 
their  fortune  by  the  decision  of  the  fateful  caskets.  The  reputation  of 
her  wealth  and  beauty  had  extended  far  and  wide ; and  Bellario  knew 
that  it  sufficed  but  to  proclaim  the  period  of  Portia’s  season  of  mourning 
and  retirement  to  be  at  an  end,  in  order  that  suitors  without  number 
would  flock  to  the  gates  of  Belmont.  He  was  well  aware  of  her  deter- 
mination to  abide  scrupulously  by  the  dictates  of  her  father’s  will ; and 
however  he  might  secretly  doubt  the  merits  of  the  prescribed  plan,  which 
assigned  so  important  a point  of  decision  to  a trial  for  the  most  part  of 
chance,  he  respected  the  daughter’s  pious  obedience  too  much,  to  utter  a 
single  word  subversive  of  her  resolution. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


87 


When  therefore  Bellario  announced  to  her  that  he  thought  it  now 
behooved  her  to  deny  herself  a longer  indulgence  in  solitude,  and  to 
throw  open  the  gates  of  Belmont  for  the  advent  of  visitors,  she,  with  her 
usual  good  sense  and  dignity,  sought  not  to  delay  an  inevitable  conse- 
quence ; but  told  him  that  however  she  might  have  of  herself  desired  to 
live  still  to  themselves,  seeking  no  other  companionship,  no  better  friend- 
ship, no  dearer  love,  she  yet  perceived  the  wisdom  of  his  counsel,  and 
was  prepared  to  conform  to  his  suggestion. 

u And  that  you  may  now  appear  in  your  true  and  exclusive  right  as 
mistress  of  Belmont,  my  Portia,”  said  he,  “ I shall  now  withdraw  myself 
to  my  quiet  bachelor  house  at  Padua,  and  leave  you  to  receive  these 
visitors,  unsupported,  save  by  your  own  dignity  and  noble  discretion.” 
Then  seeing  her  about  to  remonstrate  at  losing  him  just  when  his  pre- 
sence was  most  desired,  he  went  on  to  say : — “ It  will  be  wiser  for  you  to 
accustom  yourself  henceforth  to  rely  firmly  upon  your  own  conduct,  my 
Portia,  and  to  relinquish  the  society  of  one,  who,  though  most  dear  to 
you,  I know,  is  yet  one  to  whom  you  have  been  habituated  to  look  for 
counsel  and  assistance.  For  these'you  may  still  apply,  by  letter ; we 
have  long  had  the  custom  of  corresponding  with  each  other.  Fail  not 
therefore  to  inform  me  of  yourself  constantly,  and  above  all,  to  send  for 
my  help  whenever  it  may  avail  you  in  aught  of  exigence  or  emergency  ; 
but  in  conduct,  in  action,  learn  to  depend  upon  yourself,  and  determine 
to  hazard  rather  some  mistake,  so  that  you  may  rely  upon  your  own 
understanding,  your  own  powers.  You  know,  my  Portia,  that  I have 
never  flattered  you ; I have  even  preferred  over-sedulous  watching  and 
reforming  your  errors,  to  remarking  upon  your  merits.  But  I have 
discerned  those  merits  none  ttie  less  clearly  from  my  having  noted  them 
silently  instead  of  lauding  them  ; and  it  is  now  an  occasion  when  I may 
honestly  speak  of  their  existence,  and  tell  you  that  I think  their  nature 
and  number  are  such,  that  they  serve  to  make  you  one  of  the  noblest  and 
worthiest  of  your  sex.  You  have  reached  an  age  when  a woman  is  at 
her  brightest,  her  most  attractive  period  of  life.  You  have  youth, 
beauty,  wealth,  virtue,  native  intellect,  a cultivated  understanding,  and 
a generous,  innocent,  happy  heart.  Your  attractions,  affluence,  and 


88 


PORTIA  ; 


rank,  will  command  attention ; your  courtesy  and  dignity  will  insure 
respect ; your  talents  and  virtues  will  win  esteem  and  attachment ; and 
your  loving  nature  will  be  a source  of  happiness  to  yourself  and  others. 
Your  generosity  and  beneficence  will  prevent  your  riches  from  exciting 
envy ; and  it  will  be  only  those  men  who  cannot  bear  that  woman  should 
be  the  bestowing  party,  who  will  be  mean  enough  to  impute  pride  to  one 
who  has  so  much  in  her  gift  yet  who  bestows  it  so  liberally.  Your 
intellectual  accomplishments  will  draw  the  accusation  of  pedantry  and 
unfeminine  pre-eminence,  from  the  ignorant  and  consciously-inferior  alone, 
among  men  ; when  it  is  seen  how  modestly  and  wisely  you  exercise 
your  faculties.  It  is  merely  because  I know  that  the  most  perfect  of 
human  beings  never  yet  entirely  escaped  censure,  that  I point  out  whence 
it  may  reach  you  ; but  with  the  good,  the  gifted,  the  refined  and  exact 
in  judgment,  Portia  of  Belmont  must  ever  be  loved  and  admired  as  the 
exemplar  of  all  that  is  worthiest  in  woman  Peeling  and  knowing  this, 
as  I do,  your  faithful  friend  and  cousin  commits  you  unfearing  to  your 
own  guidance,  to  your  own  undirected  course,  secure  that  it  will  be  one 
of  unblemished  beauty,  of  distinguished  excellence.  God  bless  and 
protect  you,  my  dearest  Portia ; omit  not  to  write  of  all  you  think,  say, 
or  do,  to  your  own  true  Bellario.” 

Thus  proudly  confiding,  thus  tenderly  yet  wisely,  did  Bellario  quit 
her  ; and  it  required  all  Portia’s  judgment  and  prudence,  to  bid  her  ac- 
quiesce in  a measure  which  deprived  her  of  so  beloved  a friend — who  to 
his  self-denying  discretion  joined  so  fond  a partiality,  so  perfect  and 
devoted  an  attachment. 

In  less  than  a week  after  his  departure,  Belmont  was  once  more 
thronged  with  visitors.  Not  only  the  nobles  and  magnificos  of  Venice, 
with  their  families,' crowded  to  offer  their  congratulations  to  their  fair 
friend,  the  heiress  of  Belmont ; but  suitors  of  every  country,  renowned 
in  fame,  and  illustrious  in  birth,  poured  from  all  quarters,  and  sought 
the  adventure  of  the  caskets,  contesting  for  the  glorious  prize  therein  at 
issue. 

As  the  successive  competitors  tried  their  fate,  and  withdrew,  one 
after  the  other  equally  unprosperous  in  their  selection,  Portia  half  un- 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  BELMONT. 


89 


consciously  indulged  a sanguine  thought  that  the  right  choice  might 
perhaps  he  reserved  by  destiny  for  one  whom  she  could  prefer,  and  she 
each  day  learned  less  and  less  to  dread  the  decision,  seeing  it  so  often 
deferred.  But  she  would  now  and  then  playfully  complain  to  Nerissa 
of  the  waywardness  of  her  fate,  which  placed  her  disposal  at  the  mercy 
of  a lottery.  Nerissa  would  laughingly  attempt  to  console  her  by  assu- 
rances that  she  would  make  her  own  marriage  depend  on  the  same 
chance. 

u I know,”  said  she,  “ that  whenever  I may  think  of  a husband,  I 
shall  make  a quick  choice ; I’m  very  sure  I shan’t  be  long  making  up 
my  mind  whether  I could  like  a man  well  enough  to  take  him  for  good 
and  all ; and,  who  knows  ? perhaps  when  the  right  suitor  to  your  lady- 
ship shall  select  the  right  casket,  the  right  lover  for  me  may  present 
himself  at  the  right  same  moment,  and  so  the  rites  of  marriage  may 
give  both  the  gallants  a right  over  us  at  once  from  that  day  forward, 
and  every  thing  may  end  rightly  and  happily  after  all.” 

Sometimes,  Nerissa  would  think  of  that  young  lord  whom  she  had 
thought  so  handsome,  so  graceful,  and  so  seeming-worthy  of  her  lady  at 
the  Belmont  festival ; and  allowed  herself  to  indulge  a secret  hope  that 
he  might  some  day  or  other  present  himself  at  Belmont  among  other 
suitors,  with  better  success  than  they. 

And  in  fact,  he,  like  every  one  else,  had  heard  of  the  heiress  of  Bel- 
mont ; of  the  adventure  of  the  caskets,  and  of  how  it  was  to  decide  of  her 
disposal  in  marriage.  His  former  thought  recurred,  which  had  lain 
dormant  during  the  period  of  her  mourning  and  seclusion ; and  he  now 
resolved  that  he  would  seek  advice  and  assistance  of  his  friend  Antonio, 
and  would  try  his  fate  at  Belmont,  where  he  would  commence  his  suit 
to  Portia  by  a frank  disclosure  of  the  state  of  his  ruined  fortunes,  and 
his  desire  to  owe  all  things  to  her  bounty  and  her  love — could  he  once 
obtain  confirmation  of  his  hope  that  he  was  not  wholly  indifferent  to  her. 

Bassanio’s  spendthrift  course  had  been  rather  the  result  of  youth, 
and  exuberance  of  spirits,  than  arisen  from  a native  tendency  to  foppery 
and  extravagance.  He  was  possessed  of  high  qualities,  as  well  as  of  a 
handsome  person.  His  love  for  his  friend  Antonio  was  warm,  sincere, 


90 


PORTIA  ; 


and  fervent ; and  the  sense  he  entertained  of  the  many  benefits  he  had 
received  at  the  hands  of  this  munificent  kinsman,  which  in  a baser  na- 
ture might  have  degenerated  into  humiliating  consciousness  and  conse- 
quent dislike,  in  Bassanio’s  took  the  shape  of  gratitude,  respect,  and 
indestructible  attachment.  He  had  also  an  exalted  sense  of  honor,  a 
refined  appreciation  of  goodness  and  beauty,  and  entertained  an  utter 
scorn  of  falsehood  in  word  or  deed. 

But  to  return  to  Belmont — to  Portia — to  Nerissa. 

One  day,  when  there  had  been  as  usual  a numerous  arrival  of  suitors 
during  the  preceding  week,  and  there  were  then  abiding  in  the  house  no 
fewer  than  six  gentlemen. — a Neapolitan  prince,  a County  Palatine,  a 
French  lord,  an  English  baron,  a Scotch  earl,  and  a German  duke’s 
nephew, — all  attracted  hither  by  the  fame  of  the  rich  heiress,  Portia  and 
Nerissa  sat  at  their  embroidery  frame  in  the  library.  Portia  loved  this 
room  for  the  sake  of  her  father,  whom  she  had  here  beheld  for  the  last 
time,  and  for  the  sake  of  Bellario,  with  whom  she  had  here  spent  some 
of  the  happiest  hours  of  her  existence.  She  made  it  her  own  peculiar 
sitting-room,  therefore  ; and  here  she  sat  on  the  morning  in  question, 
chatting  gayly  with  Nerissa  in  their  usual  free,  pleasant,  light-hearted 
manner. 

And  so,  in  the  pretended  pouting  of  a favorite  of  fortune,  Portia 
said  : — ■“  By  my  troth , Nerissa , my  little  body  is  aweary  of  this  great 
world  d 


What  Nerissa  answered,  we  all  know — or  ought  to  knojv\  Her 
words  are  to  be  found  in  the  second  scene  of  a certain  play ; where, 
u my  master  desires  to  speak  with  you.” 


FINIS. 


SAW  OCR  CASTLE. 


TALE  II. 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


“I  would  not  have  such  a heart  in  my  bosom,  for  the  dignity  of  the  whole  body.” 

Macbeth . 


The  night-wind  howled  and  swept  oyer  the  heathy  plains  that  sur- 
rounded the  castle.  It  drove  on  shriekingly ; then  paused  ~ and  then 
the  sharp  lashings  of  the  rain-storm  pelted  onward  before  its  fierce  will. 
The  distant  hills  were  hung  with  mist ; and  when  the  flashes  of  light- 
ning darted  a momentary  glare  upon  all  around,  they  served  but  to 
illumine  the  dense  dank  veil  that  shrouded  castle,  hill,  and  valley. 

Dismally  and  wailingly  the  gust  panted  on,  lamenting ; and  but  held 
in  its  mighty  breath  to  take  fresh  force  for  the  next  burst  of  rage. 
Moaning  and  plaintive,  it  lulled  and  halted  ; then  screaming  and  hurling 
wildly  on,  it  poured  forth  its  fury,  aloud,  abroad,  aloft,  scattering  clouds 
and  mists,  wrenching  trees  from  their  rooted  firmness,  dashing  the 
waters  of  stream,  lake,  and  torrent,  and  filling  the  sky  with  uproar  and 
tempest. 

Round  the  walls  and  battlements  of  the  castle  it  beat,  and  tore,  and 
raved  ; the  rain  whirled  its  sheeted  drifts  against  the  stony  security,  as 
if  mad  with  impotent  endeavours  to  penetrate  the  building,  and  whelm 
all  beneath  its  washing  inundation ; the  lightning  darted  fiery  threats 
amid  turret  and  tower,  in  vivid,  sudden,  quick-succeeding  flashes ; while 
the  deep-rolling  thunder  mingled  its  awful  menaces  with  the  howls  and 


94 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


complainings  of  the  wind.  The  wrath  of  nature  seemed  striving  to  find 
voice  in  the  tumult  of  the  vengeful  elements;  as  these  storm-ministers 
still  beat,  and  tore,  and  raved  round  the  castle  walls. 

For  within  these  walls — in  one  of  the  upper  chambers  of  the  castle 
— lay  one  in  the  pangs  of  travail ; and  that  night  a child  was  born  into 
the  world,  destined  to  read  a world-wide  lesson,  how  unhallowed  desires 
and  towering  ambition  can  deface  the  image  of  virtue  in  a human  heart, 
and  teach  it  to  spurn  and  outrage  the  dictates  of  nature  herself. 

The  lights  in  the  chamber  were  screened  and  dimmed,  that  they 
might  not  disturb  the  sufferer.  The  voices  of  the  attendant  women 
were  suppressed,  as  they  muttered  among  themselves  ; and  their  step 
was  cautious,  as  they  occasionally  moved  about  in  obedience  to  the  be- 
hests of  an  aged  woman,  who  seemed  to  preside  over  the  sick-room, 
officiating  as  midwife,  and  directing  all  things  according  as  her  skill 
prompted,  to  alleviate  her  lady’s  sufferings.  Nought  was  heard  in  the 
chamber  but  the  lowered  voices  of  the  attendants  ; the  slight  clicking  of 
the  wood-embers  that  lay  between  the  pair  of  iron  dogs  upon  the  hearth  ; 
a few  stifled  moans  from  the  bed  of  pain  ; a word  or  two  in  reply,  of  sup- 
port and  comfort  from  the  aged  nurse-ministrant ; while  amidst  all  these 
hushed  sounds  within,  mingled  the  howlings  of  the  storm  from  without, 
which  still  beat,  and  tore,  and  raved  round  the  castle  walls. 

“ It  is  a wild  night,  Bethoc,  is  it  not  ?”  murmured  the  sick  lady  to 
her  faithful  nurse. 

“ It  is,  my  lady,”  replied  old  Bethoc.  “ But  you  will  think  the  rays 
of  the  blessed  sun  are  shining,  when  you  behold  the  light  of  your  child’s 
face.  Bear  ye  bravely,  my  lady,  and  think  of  the  morning  that  will 
dawn  upon  you  then,  to  console  you  for  the  sore  dark  night  ye’re  pass- 
ing through.” 

In  the  hall  below  there  is  a meal  toward.  Tables  are  spreading  for 
a second  supper  ; for  the  lord  of  the  castle  cannot  retire  to  rest  while 
his  lady  lies  in  perilous  strait ; and  as  it  is  many  hours  since  the  even- 
ing-meal, he  orders  another,  as  much  that  he  may  have  some  object 
which  may  serve  to  make  the  time  seem  to  lag  less  heavily,  as  because  he 


THE  THANE7S  DAUGHTER. 


95 


feels  aught  of  hunger  or  thirst.  The  seeing  his  attendants  bustle  to  and 
fro  in  active  preparation,  is  something  too,  in  that  season  of  suspense ; 
and  the  old  thane  sits  half  watching  them,  half  gazing  into  the  cheerful 
fire  that  roars  upon  the  huge  hearth,  as  his  hand  rests  upon  the  neck  of 
one  of  a leash  of  tall  deer-hounds  that  stand  at  his  knee,  while  its  com- 
panions lie  at  his  feet,  and  regard  their  master’s  face  with  that  sagacious 
look  of  sympathy  with  his  anxious  expression  of  countenance,  which 
seems  akin  to  rational  intelligence. 

But  through  all  the  setting  of  tables,  and  ranging  of  stools  and 
benches,  and  jingling  of  cans,  and  bringing  in  of  dishes,  and  wine-flasks 
and  ale-flaggons  ; and  through  all  the  hurry  of  serving-men,  and  shuffling 
of  feet,  and  calling  of  voices,  and  opening  and  shutting  of  doors — through 
all,  and  above  all,  is  heard  the  howling  of  the  storm  from  without,  that 
still  beats,  and  tears,  and  raves  round  the  castle  walls. 

u Go,  one  of  you,  and  enquire  how  my  lady  doth  now,”  said  the  thane  ; 
c:  bid  Bethoc  send  me  word  how  she  fares ; and  not  to  fail  to  let  me 
have  good  news  as  soon  as  may  be — of  a boy,  if  it  please  Heaven  ; — for 
her  sake  !” 

There  was  a parley  among  the  at  tendants  ; a pause,  a consultation, 
as  if  hesitating  who  should  fulfil  the  bidding  of  their  master,  which 
spoke  a tale  of  neglectful  and  too-easy  rule,  on  his  part,  with  correspon- 
dent carelessness,  and  tardiness  of  obedience  on  theirs. 

u Let  Ivan  go — ” 

“ No,  no,  let  Fergus  go — ” 

a Indeed,  I am  not  going,  just  as  the  meat  is  serving  in  ; send  young 
Culen  ; let  Culen  go.  Here,  Culen,  my  lad,  take  a torch,  and  away  with 
you  to  my  lady’s  chamber,  and  bring  my  lord  word  how  it  fares  with 
her  now.  If  it  be  your  luck  to  bring  back  tidings  of  an  heir,  who 
knows  but  the  news  may  be  worth  promotion  to  thee ; for  my  lord’s 
coffers  are  too  ill  provided,  I fear,  to  let  him  give  thee  any  thing  else. 
Had  there  been  likelihood  of  a broad  piece,  now,  I might  have  gone  my- 
self.” 

These  words  were  spoken  aside,  among  the  serving-men ; with  but 
half-suppressed  chuckling,  for  the  good  old  thane’s  well-known  slender 


96 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


means,  as  well  as  easy  disposition,  caused  him  to  be  held  in  slight  respect 
by  his  retainers,  whose  hireling  natures  would  have  paid  more  servile 
deference  to  affluent  tyranny. 

Ceaseless  wars,  with  their  concomitant  evils  of  ruinous  exactions, 
scanty  tillage,  unproductive  harvests,  and  the  impossibility  of  domestic 
improvement,  had  entirely  drained  this  formerly-wealthy  thane’s  re- 
sources ; and  he  was  now  an  impoverished  old  man,  with  little  beside 
his  patrimonial  castle  and  title,  to  prevent  him  from  being  nominally,  as 
well  as  actually,  a beggar. 

The  little  page,  Culen,  left  the  hall  as  he  was  bid ; bearing  with  him 
a torch  to  guide  him  through  the  long  dark  galleries  and  corridors,  and 
winding  stairs,  and  many  chambers,  which  he  had  to  traverse  ere  he 
could  reach  the  one  where  his  lady-mistress  lay.  The  lad  screened  the 
light  he  bore,  as  well  as  he  could,  from  the  strong  draughts  of  air  that 
came  streaming  through  the  stone  passages,  and  met  him  at  the  opening 
of  doors,  and  threatened  to  extinguish  the  flame  of  his  torch.  His  heart 
sank  as  he  thought  of  being  left  in  darkness  all  alone  in  those  dreary 
vaulted  spaces,  and  the  boy  muttered  a pater-noster,  as  he  listened  to 
the  roaring  of  the  wind,  and  fixed  his  eyes  steadily  upon  the  flickering 
light,  scarcely  daring  to  glance  round,  lest  he  might  see  something  ter- 
rible in  the  gloom. 

“ Pshaw,  what  should  I be  afraid  of?”  thought  he.  “la  soldier  (as 
I hope  to  be  some  day),  and  afraid  ! Still,  it  is  well  that  good  Grym 
taught  me  that  prayer,  which  he  learned  when  he  used  to  serve  mass 
when  he  was  himself  a little  chap,  over  there  at  the  abbey.  c Fiat  vo- 
luntas tua .’  I think  it  must  be  because  I’m  sent  of  this  errand  to  the 
dark  lady  at  night ; for  I ain’t  at  all  afraid  of  her  by  day-time,  any  more 
than  I am  of  these  long  galleries,  then.  It’s  a terrible  night ! The  wind 
screams  like  an  owlet ! ‘ Dimitte  nobis  debito  nostra .’  It’s  strange  that 

we  should  call  my  lady  £ the  dark  lady,’  and  not  by  her  name.  I’ll  think 
to  ask  Grym  about  that,  bytheby.  I wonder  whether  the  baby  is  born !” 

At  this  instant,  a peal  of  thunder  so  loud  and  so  immediate  that  it 
seemed  to  shake  the  sturdy  walls  of  the  castle,  and  cause  them  to  vi- 
brate to  their  very  foundation,  appalled  the  heart  of  the  page,  Culen, 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


97 


and  he  sank  involuntarily  to  his  knee,  with  a trembling  “ Libera  nos  a 
malo /”  Then,  during  the  silence  that  ensued,  the  childish  voice  might 
be  heard  steadily  and  devoutly  repeating  the  beautiful  prayer  to  our 
Almighty  Father.  Strengthened  and  encouraged,  the  boy  arose,  and 
once  more  proceeded  on  his  way  to  the  chamber  of  his  mistress ; where 
he  knocked  at  the  door,  and  delivered  his  message  to  one  of  the  attend- 
ant women,  who  was  sent  out  to  him  by  old  Bethoc,  the  nurse. 

The  waiting-woman  stepped  forth  into  the  ante-room  where  the 
page  stood,  and  drawing  the  door  close  behind  her,  she  whispered  to 
him  that  he  might  tell  his  lord  that  my  lady  was  better,  and  that  a little 
daughter  was  born. 

“ Bethoc  has  not  dared  to  tell  my  lady  yet,  that  the  child  is  a girl,” 
added  the  waiting-woman  ; “ we  all  know  she  will  be  so  grieved  with  the 
news.  She  set  her  heart  upon  a son  ; and  if  what  the  dark  lady  sets 
her  heart  upon,  come  not  about,  why  then ■” 

She  paused  ; the  page  nodded  as  if  he  understood  what  she  would 
say  of  the  violence  of  their  lady’s  disappointment,  and  the  two  attend- 
ants parted  ; the  one  to  bear  the  news  back  to  his  master,  the  other  to 
return  to  the  sick-room. 

On  her  couch  lay  the  dark  lady.  Her  eyes  were  closed — but  she  did 
not  sleep.  The  lids  veiled  them,  and  the  long  jet  lashes  lay  upon  the  mar- 
ble cheek  ; but  beneath  the  lids  the  restless  eye-balls  quivered,  and  the 
fringed  lashes  were  not  still ; while  the  pale  lips  trembled  and  twitched 
with  emotion  that  was  strong  and  wakeful. 

The  new-born  babe  was  on  the  knee  of  one  of  the  attendants,  close 
by  the  fire,  where  it  lay  basking  and  burgeoning,  and  stretching  its 
limbs  towards  the  welcome  glow,  like  a butterfly  fresh-emerged  from  its 
chrysalis  enfoldings,  sunning  its  wings  in  the  genial  warmth  of  noon. 

The  waiting-women  crept  quietly  to  and  fro  ; ever  and  anon  coming 
to  kneel  softly  down,  and  bend  over  the  newly-born  little  one,  to  scan 
its  infant  features,  and  press  its  fairy  feet  to  their  lips,  and  let  it  curl 
its  miniature  fingers  round  one  of  theirs,  in  caressing  womanly  wont. 

Bethoc  hovered  near  her  mistress,  mutely  sympathising  with  the 


93 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


thoughts  which  she  knew  agitated  her  heart,  and  caused  those  sleepless 
eyes  to  quiver  and  tremble. 

The  dark  eyes  open,  and  meet  those  of  the  aged  nurse.  They  are 
eager,  and  fraught  with  solicitude  and  enquiry  of  somewhat  the  lips  dare 
not  frame  into  a question. 

The  nurse,  to  evade  seeming  to  comprehend  what  she  understands 
but  too  well,  affects  to  be  busied  with  the  pillows,  and  to  imagine  that 
their  better  arrangement  is  the  object  of  the  lady’s  wish. 

A little  cry  reaches  the  bed.  The  eyes  flash  open  once  again,  in 
still  more  peremptory  interrogation ; and  the  dark  lady  fixing  them  on 
Bethoc  with  a stern  resolution  not  to  be  withstood,  mutters : — ■“  You 
know  what  I would  ask !” 

Bethoc  answered : — “ I will  bring  the  bajbe,  and  lay  her  to  your 
breast,  my  lady.” 

“ Dare  not  to  say  * her  V ” 

“ Madam,  the  bairn’s  just  a lassie  ; I’d  ha’  told  ye  of  a man-child,  if 
I could.” 

A groan  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  dark  lady ; and  the  teeth  were 
ground,  with  what  sounded  a curse  ! 

The  lady  Grruoch,  descended  of  one  of  the  noblest  Scottish  houses, 
by  orphanhood  in  her  minority,  became  a ward  of  the  crown ; which  at 
that  early  period  in  Scotland,  had  feudal  power  over  the  lands  and  pos- 
sessions of  all  minors  thus  left,  together  with  the  disposal  of  their  hand 
in  marriage.  Boyal  expediency  saw  fit  to  bestow  her  as  a wife  upon 
Kenneth,  thane  of  Moray ; who,  old  enough  to  be  her  father,  had  yet 
not  sufficient  experience  to  be  able  to  win  the  love  of  the  young  beauty 
who  had  thus  become  bound  to  him  for  life.  Not  only  had  the  lady  no 
inclination  for  a man  so  much  her  senior,  whom  she  had  scarcely  ever 
seen,  ere  she  became  indissolubly  united  to  him  ; but  their  dispositions, 
tempers,  opinions,  tastes,  were  so  utterly  at  variance,  that  it  was  not  to 
be  expected  that  the  original  indifference  of  the  bride  would  ever  warm 
into  the  affection  of  a wife — all  that  could  be  hoped  was,  that  it  might 
not  be  converted  into  repugnance  by  a constant  association  with  one  so 
entirely  opposed  to  her  in  thought,  word,  and  deed. 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


99 


But  though  the  thane  of  Moray  was  little  calculated  to  inspire  love 
in  her  whom  he  had  married,  he  was  almost  as  little  formed  to  excite  so 
active  a feeling  as  dislike,  for  he  was  bland,  kind,  and  gentle  to  a fault 
— at  least  in  those  times,  when  hardihood,  courage,  fortitude,  activity, 
and  the  austerer  virtues  more  advantageously  adorned  a man  than  such 
qualities  as  distinguished  the  mild  and  benevolent  Kenneth. 

It  was  the  very  excess  of  these  amiable  qualities  in  her  lord,  which 
were  destructive  to  the  growth  of  a warmer  liking  for  him  in  the  heart 
of  the  lady  Grruoch,  and  were  so  peculiarly  opposed  to  her  ow  n character. 
His  bland  manners  she  thought  misplaced  in  a man  whose  station  made 
him  the  chieftain  of  a band  of  men  who  should  be  trained  to  arms  and 
warlike  deeds,  and  disciplined  to  strict  obedience.  His  kindness  and 
benevolence  she  thought  weakness ; his  love  of  quiet  and  peaceful  occu- 
pations, which  led  him  to  submit  to  all  exactions  rather  than  engage  in 
contention  with  his  neighbours,  or  in  warfare  for  his  sovereign,  unless 
peremptorily  summoned  to  the  field,  she  looked  upon  as  unmanly  lack 
of  spirit,  and  want  of  honourable  ambition  ; his  serene  temper  was  a sore 
trial  to  her’s  ; and  his  gentleness  a perpetual  thorn  in  her  peace. 

For  her  own  heart  beat  high  and  proud,  as  she  'thought  of  the  re- 
nown to  be  won  in  the  tented  field, — of  the  added  glories  that  might  be 
set  beside  those  descended  to  her  and  her  husband  from  a noble  race  of 
ancestors, — of  the  honors  that  might  heighten  those  already  the  inherit- 
ance of  their  respective  houses.  Her  own  pride  of  blood,  the  daring 
aspiration  of  her  nature,  caused  her  to  scorn  such  qualities  as  she  dis- 
covered in  her  husband,  as  so  many  obstacles  in  the  way  of  her  ambition. 
When  first  she  had  married,  the  high  rank  of  her  destined  husband,  the 
knowledge  that  even  royal  blood  ran  in  his  veins,  had  gone  far  to  recon- 
cile her  to  the  difference  of  years  that  existed  between  them  ; for  she 
hoped  to  find  consolation  in  the  grandeur  and  power  of  rank  and  wealth, 
for  the  want  of  that  happiness  which  she  expected  not  to  derive  from 
love.  But  she  soon  discovered  that  the  thane’s  rank  and  descent  were 
counterbalanced  by  a tranquil  nature  that  cared  not  to  purchase  dignity 
and  elevation  at  the  price  of  happiness  and  peace ; that  his  claims 
would  never  be  supported,  if  they  could  only  be  maintained  by  strife 


100 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


and  bloodshed ; that  his  possessions  were  fast  dwindling  beneath  the 
demands  of  an  exacting  and  despotic  monarchy,  which  extorted  fines 
and  levied  contributions  from  such  of  its  subjects  as  preferred  the  sacri- 
fice of  their  revenues  to  seditious  resistance,  and  a settlement  of  mutual 
claims  in  the  open  field ; and  that,  in  short,  her  ambition  had  as  little 
prospect  of  satisfaction  from  wedlock,  as  her  affections. 

After  the  first  disappointment  of  her  hopes,  they  had  suddenly  re- 
vived at  the  prospect  of  a son.  A year  after  her  marriage,  she  had 
given  birth  to  a boy,  and  in  this  son  she  soon  learned  to  centre  all 
those  yearnings  of  ambition,  those  daring  aspirations  which  she  had 
just  taught  herself  to  fear  must  be  for  ever  crushed. 

But  scarcely  had  she  permitted  herself  to  indulge  this  fond  renewal 
of  hope,  before  it  was  suddenly  withdrawn.  The  child  lived  but  a few 
months,  and  in  its  little  grave  was  buried  all  that  remained  of  cheer  to 
its  mother.  It  was  soon  after  the  death  of  this  child,  that  the  title  by 
which  the  lady  Gruoch  was  best  known,  became  confirmed  in  use  among 
the  retainers  of  her  husband’s  household.  When  the  thane  had  first 
brought  her  a bride  to  his  castle,  the  raven  hue  of  her  hair,  the  intense 
depth  of  her  beautiful  eyes,  the  jet  of  those  pencilled  brows,  and  the 
long  black  silken  lashes  that  fringed  the  lids,  and  rested  upon  the  pale 
• cheek,  altogether  formed  so  strikingly-singular  a contrast  with  the  ge- 
nerality of  the  fair-haired  beauties  who  are  the  dwellers  in  that  North- 
ern land,  that  she  became,  by  common  consent,  known  as  the  dark  lady 
of  Moray.  And  after  the  loss  of  her  son,  the  habitual  gloom  that 
settled  upon  her  brow,  the  concentrated  mood  in  which  she  was  wont  to 
nurse  her  disappointed  fancy,  the  lofty  pride  that  held  her  reserved  and 
aloof  in  bearing,  with  the  increased  pallor  of  her  complexion,  which 
heightened  the  effect  of  her  raven  tresses,  and  of  those  deep,  mysterious, 
self-communing  eyes,  combined  to  render  the  title  more  and  more  appro- 
priate ; and  from  that  time  forth  she  was  always  named  u the  dark  lady.” 

Years  of  brooding  discontent  had  lapsed  wearily  away,  when  the 
unexpected  prospect  of  again  becoming  a mother,  had  re-awakened  in 
the  dark  lady  the  hope  of  beholding  a son.  How  that  hope  was  once 
more  blighted,  has  been  seen. 


THE  THANE?S  DAUGHTER. 


101 


The  storm  had  subsided ; and  for  many  hours  the  sky  had  been 
clear  and  bright.  It  was  high  morning.  The  dark  lady  had  been 
placed  by  her  attendants  in  a half-recumbent  position,  within  the  influ- 
ence of  the  cheerful  rays  that  streamed  in  at  the  chamber-window  J" 
and  thus  propped  and  supported  by  cushions,  with  her  back  to  the  light, 
and  leaning  one  cheek  on  her  hand,  she  sat  abstracted  and  silent,  wait- 
ing the  approach  of  her  husband,  who  had  sent  word  that  he  was  coming 
to  thank  and  bless  her  for  the  welcome  gift  with  which  she  had  pre- 
sented him. 

The  old  thane  came ; and  bending  oyer  her  in  a transport  of  honest 
tenderness,  he  kissed  her  forehead,  and  whispered  his  joy  to  see  her 
safe,  his  proud  delight  at  the  thought  of  the  child  she  had  brought  him 
— his  thanks — his  happiness. 

The  dark  lady  turned  those  large  full  eyes  upon  him,  with  a look  of 
wonder. 

“ Do  you  know  it  is  a girl  ?”  she  asked. 

“ Surely ;”  replied  her  husband.  “ Dear  little  creature,  she  is  sent 
by  Heaven  to  make  my  age  happy,  and  to  comfort  her  mother  when  she 
has  laid  her  old  Kenneth  in  the  grave.  You  might  perhaps  have  had  a 
partner  better  suited  to  you  than  myself,  dear  wife,”  added  the  thane, 
“ but  you  could  hardly  have  had  one  who  loved  you  more  fondly ; when 
you  lose  your  old  husband,  you  will  miss  him  more  than  you  perhaps 
think,  and  I am  glad  to  know  you  will  have  this  little  one  to  love  you 
in  my  stead.” 

u I shall  not  survive  you,”  said  the  dark  lady. 

u Nay,  now  you  are  playing  the  young  wife,  indeed  ; and  would  fain 
make  me  believe  that  you  have  no  thought  of  some  day  or  other  playing 
the  gay  widow,”  said  the  thane  merrily. 

“ I shall  never  be  one,”  replied  the  dark  lady. 

Her  husband  did  not  understand  her ; and,  as  was  usual  with  him, 
in  her  cold  abstracted  moods,  made  no  attempt  to  fathom  her  reserve. 
Besides,  at  this  moment,  his  attention  was  wholly  engrossed  with  his 
baby  daughter,  who  was  placed  in  his  arms  by  Bethoc,  the  faithful  old 
nurse. 


102 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


The  thane  pressed  the  little  creature  to  his  bosom ; he  looked  into 
the  sleeping  face,  and  listened  to  the  soft  even  breathings,  and  a world 
of  emotions  filled  his  heart  at  the  thought  of  this  new  morsel  of  vitality, 
this  fresh-comer  into  existence,  this  atom  on  the  thresholds  of  the  past 
and.  present,  this  strange  bit  of  opening  life,  this  mystery  of  commence- 
ment, this  tender  blossom,  this  human  bud  awaiting  with  yet  half- 
closed  petals  its  future  development ; and  the  father  raised  his  eyes 
reverently  to  the  Creator,  from  whose  presence  the  newly-born  one 
seemed  but  recently  come,  and  prayed  that  maturity  might  not  sully  the 
pristine  whiteness  of  its  innocence. 

The  rays  of  the  morning  sun  fell  full  upon  his  silver  hairs,  and 
glistened  in  his  tearful  eyes,  as  the  venerable  thane  uttered  a de- 
vout thanksgiving  for  the  child  that  had  been  vouchsafed  to  his  old 
age. 

The  dark  lady  sat  coldly  gazing  on  this  picture  of  patriarchal  grati- 
tude; and  when  the  words  of  thanksgiving  breathed  from  her  hus- 
band’s lips,  the  same  look  of  scornful  wonder  dwelt  in  her  eyes  as 
before. 

u But  surely  the  bairn’s  a comfort  to  you,  madam said  old 
Bethoc  to  her  mistress,  when  the  dark  lady  was  once  more  alone 
with  her  women.  “ Ye  would  not  wish  the  babe  unborn,  would  ye?” 

“ As  well  unborn,  as  born  a girl she  bitterly  replied.  a This  is 
not  the  child  I hoped  ! This  is  not  the  son  who  should  have  inherited 
his  mother’s  spirit — have  carried  her  heart  into  the  field — have  enacted 
with  his  brave  arm  what  her  soul  inspired — have  reaped  glory  and 
renown — have  contended  for,  and  won  back,  the  rightful  possessions 
and  honors  of  two  noble  houses,  lapsed  into  penury  and  decay  through 
slothful  ease,  and  tame  submission.  0 where  is  the  son  might  have 
done  this  !” 

“ Patience,  patience,  lady  ; who  knows  but  the  brave  boy  may  still 
be  yours  ? Who  knows  what  another  year  may  bring  ?”  said  the  old 
nurse. 

The  dark  lady’s  eyes  flashed  disdainfully. 


THE  THANE7S  DAUGHTER. 


103 


a Did  you  note  that  snow-white  head  ? Is  that  a man  to  be  again 
a father,  think  you  ? One  child  accorded  to  doting  age  such  as 
that,  was  a boon  past  expectance  of  Heaven’s  bounty ; but  that  one 
child  being  a puny  girl,  Heaven’s  gift  is  scarce  better  than  an  af- 
fliction.” 

u Talk  not  so  wildly,  madam;”  said  the  aged  Bethoc.  “Ye  can 
hardly  have  savoured  true  affliction,  to  speak  of  it  in  the  same  breath 
with  a new-born  innocent  like  this,”  said  she,  placing  the  little  one  in 
the  arms  of  its  mother,  that  in  and  with  the  act  of  bestowing  nourish- 
ment from  her  own  bosom,  gentler  thoughts  might  flow  towards  the 
guiltless  offender.  “ And  as  for  its  being  ‘ a puny  girl,’  a bonnier  babe, 
or  one  more  like  to  thrive,  it  has  never  been  my  fortune  to  behold.  Ye 
might  have  complained,  indeed,  had  it  been  your  fate,  my  lady,  to  have 
been  brought  to  bed  of  some  monster,  such  as  I have  heard  of  before 
now.  I remember  once,  in  the  time  of  the  last  great  dearth,  there  was 
a gentlewoman  gave  birth  to  a poor  unfortunate,  with  neither  hands 
nor  feet,  and  it  was  blind,  deaf,  and  dumb ; you  might  have  talked  of 
affliction,  then,  indeed  ; or  have  looked  upon  Heaven’s  gift  as  a grief, 
had  you  brought  forth  the  deformity  I heard  tell  of,  that  was  born  to 
an  unhappy  woman  in  Angus.  It  was  a creature  frightful  to  behold, 
with  a head  like  that  of  a swine,  a pigeon-breast,  and  distorted  back 
and  shoulders  ; it  was  web-footed  like  a goose,  and  its  legs  were  curved 
and  set  with  bristles,  so  that  it  looked  like  an  animal,  strange  and 
ghastly,  and  horribly  ill-favored.  And  then,  too,  there  was  that 
wretched  lady  in  Galloway,  who  bore  a double-child,  with  four  arms 
and  two  heads ; and  which  as  it  grew  up,  fought  and  brawled  with 
its  own  other  self,  in  a manner  terrible  to  the  beholders.  For  it  pos- 
sessed in  its  double  body,  two  separate  sets  of  wills  and  inclinations, 
that  were  ever  at  variance  among  themselves,  so  that  the  chiding  and 
quarrelling  was  incessant  and  grievous.  As  when  one  body  a-hungered, 
the  other  would  gladly  fast ; and  when  one  longed  for  sleep,  the  other 
was  wakeful  and  desirous  of  sport ; and  these  warring  desires  so 
plagued  and  tormented  them,  that  the  four  arms  would  be  rending  and 
tearing  in  piteous  fashion  with  their  nails.  But  the  worst  was,  when 


104 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


sickness  at  length  attacked  one  of  these  miserable  bodies,  so  that  it 
dwindled  and  pined,  and  gradually  languished  till  it  died ; and  the  other 
twin-body,  unable  to  support  the  nausea  of  its  kindred  corruption,  sick- 
ened and  died  also.” 

Thus  ran  on  the  aged  crone  with  her  nurse’s  tales,  in  hope  to  be- 
guile her  lady ; and  lead  her  to  think  more  well-favoredly  of  the  babe, 
whose  only  blemish  was  her  being  a daughter,  by  these  legends  of  pro- 
digious birth,  monstrosity  and  marvel. 

But  the  dark  lady  heeded  not  her  nurse’s  loquacity.  She  was 
watching  the  infant  at  her  breast ; and  as  it  drew  its  life-sustaining 
streams  thence,  she  half  grudged  to  bestow  them  on  this  girl,  this  non- 
boy, this  embodied  disappointment,  this  mortification,  this  perplexity, 
this  child  that  was  no  child, — to  her. 

Her  imagination  pictured  to  her  the  pride  and  joy  with  which  she 
should  have  beheld  a son  and  heir  drawing  frorii  her  bosom  sustenance 
and  strength  to  grow  into  youth  and  manhood  by  her  side ; a son 
into  whom  she  might  infuse  her  ambitious  spirit,  into  whose  mind 
she  might  instil  her  aspiring  hopes,  whom  she  might  nurture  in 
high  enthusiasm,  and  train  to  courageous  deeds,  and  whom  she 
might  one  day  see  fulfil  and  attain  in  person  all  her  long-hoarded 
desires. 

The  indulgence  of  her  fancy  in  what  might  have  been,  served  to 
convert  the  reality  before  her  into  a torture  instead  of  a blessing ; and 
so  the  mother  looked  almost  with  aversion  upon  her  own  infant. 
Mother’s  regards  were  well-nigh  scowls ; mother’s  smiles  were  all 
but  disdain,  not  pitiful  tenderness ; mother’s  breast  heaved  repiningly 
in  lieu  of  yielding  its  balmy  treasures  lavishly  and  lovingly ; and 
thus  the  babe  gazed  wondering  up  into  .those  dark  unfathomable  eyes 
with  naught  of  maternity  in  their  irresponsive  depths ; and  thus  the 
babe  sucked  bitterness,  perverted  feeling,  unholy  regret,  and  vain  aspira- 
tion, with  every  milky  draught  imbibed. 

But  whatever  of  baneful  influence  and  mysterious  harm  to  that 
infant  soul  might  mingle  with  the  sources  of  nourishment  thus  con- 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


105 


veyed,  the  little  body  waxed  strong  and  healthful ; its  limbs  gained 
firmness  and  vigor ; it  daily  increased  in  force,  activity  and  intelli- 
gence ; and  as  the  mother  beheld  its  thriving  beauty,  she  thought  how 
well  that  beauty  might  have  become  a boy.  As  she  viewed  the  health- 
ful frame,  and  felt  the  energy  and  power  which  strained  every  muscle, 
and  struggled  in  every  movement  of  the  robust  little  being  that  kicked^ 
and  stretched,  and  strove,  and  fought  within  her  arms,  the  dark  lady 
sighed  to  think  such  a frame  and  such  powers  were  wasted  on  a girl. 
The  canker  of  fruitless  repining  was  fast  destroying  the  parent-blossom, 
even  while  watching  the  promising  growth  of  her  fair  opening  bud  ; 
and  while  the  babe  increased  and  strengthened,  the  mother  drooped  and 
decayed.  She  had  truly  felt,  that  the  disappointment  she  had  sus- 
tained was  her  death-blow  ; and,  as  she  had  predicted  to  her  old  hus- 
band, she  was  destined  not  to  survive  it,  or  to  outlive  him. 

She  sat  day  after  day,  and  week  after  week,  never  leaving  her 
chamber,  or  seeming  to  take  interest  in  a single  object  animate  or  inani- 
mate. She  remained,  for  the  most  part,  in  one  listless  attitude  ; rarely 
speaking,  and  scarcely  looking  at  anything,  or  regarding  any  person. 
She  seemed  shrouded  in  discontent,  yet  uttering  no  syllable  of  com- 
plaint. She  claimed  no  sympathy,  and  sought  no  relief  to  the  monotony 
of  inward  despondency,  but  folded  herself  within  an  impenetrable  veil 
of  outward  apathy,  and  heavy  dull  immobility.  Ever  proud  and  re- 
served, she  seemed  no'w  doubly  unapproachable,  muffled  and  shut  in 
with  her  mute  regrets. 

At  first,  her  husband  had  endeavoured  to  withdraw  her  from  her 
solitude,  and  to  win  her  from  the  stupor  of  disappointment  which  held 
her  sitting  there  day  after  day,  in  the  unmoved  position  which  was 
fast  becoming  habitual ; but  his  efforts  were  repulsed  with  indiffer- 
ence, coldness,  and  silence.  The  old  thane,  with  his  wonted  passive- 
ness, soon  ceased  to  oppose  her  apparent  disinclination  to  leave  her 
chamber ; and  it  was  not  long  ere  he  Learned  to  acquiesce  altogether 
in  her  seeming  preference  for  seclusion,  by  leaving  her  to  herself. 

Her  increasing  silence  and  reserve  made  even  her  women  refrain 
from  addressing  her ; they  acquired  the  habit  of  creeping  to  and  fro 


106 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


noiselessly  while  in  her  immediate  presence,  and  receiving  their  orders 
exclusively  from  Bethoe,  who  supplied  the  place  of  her  mistress  by 
thinking  for  her,  speaking  for  her,  superintending  the  welfare  of  the  in“ 
fant,  and  giving  the  necessary  directions  to  the  female  attendants. 

And  there,  week  after  week,  and  month  after  month,  sat  the  dark 
lady,  like  a living  statue,  mute  and  immutable ; the  only  perceptible 
alteration  in  her  attitude,  being  a gradual  sinking  and  collapsing  of  the 
frame,  which  brought  her  low,  bent,  and  drooping,  like  a withered  plant. 
Each  day,  and  from  day  to  day,  the  change  could  scarcely  be  traced ; 
but  when  she  first  assumed  that  seat,  and  that  fixed  position,  her  body 
was  erect,  haughty,  energetic,  and  defiant ; — before  a twelvemonth  had 
elapsed,  the  muscles  were  flaccid,  the  flesh  was  shrunk  and  wasted,  the 
cheek  was  worn  and  hollow,  the  form  was  feeble,  and  the  whole  figure 
sat  heaped  together  languidly,  as  if  devoid  of  vitality. 

The  eyes  alone  retained  their  spirit.  These  still  were  haughty,  en- 
ergetic, defiant  as  ever.  For  as  she  sat  there  enwrapt  in  stony  stillness, 
she  would  watch  the  shifting  clouds,  now  careering  in  fleecy  whiteness 
across  the  spring  sether,  now  dappling  lightly  the  summer  blue,  now 
hurrying  athwart  the  murky  grey,  or  driving  wildly  along  upon  the 
storm -blast ; but  through  all  the  countless  varieties  of  form,  and  hue, 
and  motion,  in  cloudland,  those  dark  eyes  flashed  ever  towards  the  sky 
proud  defiance,  accusation,  and  resentment  of  hopes  defeated.  None 
the  less  a rebel  to  Heaven’s  will,  for  her  voiceless  inward  chafing ; it 
seemed  as  if  the  unrest  of  her  soul  fought  all  the  more  fiercely  for  the 
marble  quiescence  of  her  body. 

One  bright  noon,  even  in  that  Northern  region,  the  sun  shone  with 
powerful  rays,  and  cast  their  broad  light  Aill  into  the  chamber,  where 
the  dark  lady  sat,  as  usual  dumb  and  motionless,  surrounded  by  her  si- 
lent women. 

Bethoe,  the  aged  nurse,  held  the  child  in  her  arms,  as  it  struggled, 
and  strained,  and  held  out  its  hands  towards  the  sunbeams,  that  shed 
their  radiance  in  such  bright  alluring  streams  just  within  its  reach.  The 
crowing  joy  and  glad  shrill  tones  of  the  little  one  sounded  strangely  in 
that  silent  room,  as  the  babe  shouted  its  imperfect  utterances  of  delight. 


THE  THANE7S  DAUGHTER. 


107 


at  the  gay  dancing  motes  it  beheld  in  the  sunbeams ; and  still  it  leaped 
and  bounded  in  the  nurse’s  arms,  and  clutched  at  the'  brilliant  atoms  it 
strove  to  grasp. 

The  mother’s  attention  was  arrested ; and  she  gazed  upon  the  infant’s 
eagerness  with  a look  of  interest  that  her  face  had  not  worn  for  many  a 
month. 

Then  vexation  succeeded  to  delight,  as  the  phantom  brightness  still 
eluded  pursuit.  The  baby  hands  clenched  angrily,  and  struck  and  buf- 
feted at  the  golden  rays  they  could  not  seize. 

The  dark  lady  noted  the  rage  that  sprang  from  opposition  with  a 
keen  satisfied  glance. 

Frowns  succeeded  to  smiles.  Tears  sparkled  in  the  childish  e^es. 
Short  shrieks,  and  cries  of  baffled  will,  took  the  place  of  former  joyful 
Growings  ; until  in  at  the  window  flew  a small  silver-winged  moth,  that 
took  its  place  with  the  motes  in  the  sunbeams,  dancing,  and  floating,  and 
playing  up  and  down  in  the  flood  of  light. 

This  tangible  object  of  interest  and  pursuit  pacified  the  babe ; and 
all  its  clutchings  and  strivings  were  renewed  and  concentrated  upon  this 
pretty  buoyant  spark  of  brightness.  The  old  nurse  drew  back  with  her 
charge.  u Let  it  alone,  my  darling ; ye’ll  kill  the  bonny  wee  thing ; 
ye’ll  crush  the  poor  little  beastie.” 

“ Let  her,  so  that  she  gets  it !”  exclaimed  the  dark  lady  abruptly. 

The  unwonted  sound  of  her  lady’s  voice  made  Bethoc  start.  The 
child  made  one  more  plunge,  and  by  chance,  caught  the  silvery  moth. 

The  next  instant,  the  little  fingers  were  unclosed ; to  one  of  them 
stuck  the  mangled  insect,  crushed  even  by  so  slight  a touch.  But  as  the 
child  held  up  the  victim  of  hfcr  success  in  baby  triumph,  and  as  her  eyes 
sparkled  and  glistened  now  with  smiles  as  well  as  tears  in  token  of  joy- 
ful conquest,  the  mother  exclaimed  exultingly : — 

“ Besolute  in  achievement ! Firm  of  purpose  even  unto  death ! 
That  should  be  a masculine  spirit  ! Bethoc,  bring  the  little  Amazon 
to  me  !” 

But  as  she  uttered  the  words,  a sharp  sudden  shiver  passed  over  her 
frame ; a spasm  convulsed  the  face,  and  before  the  women  could  reach 


108 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


her,  or  Bethoc  could  place  her  child  within  her  arms,  the  dark  lady  sank 
back, — a corpse. 

The  death  of  her  mother  made  little  difference  in  the  course  of  the 
child’s  daily  existence.  The  dark  lady’s  seat  was  unoccupied  now  ; but 
the  babe,  unaccustomed  to  be  fondled,  or  prattled  to,  or  even  noticed,  by 
the  cold  stationary  figure  that  had  so  long  filled  it,  seemed  scarcely  af- 
fected by  the  change. 

Once,  indeed,  when  the  little  one  was  helping  itself  along  by  the 
stools  and  chairs  round  the  room,  and  learning  to  totter  from  one  to  the 
other,  by  aid  of  its  arms  and  hands,  it  stopped  in  front  of  this  seat — 
which  was  still  called  “ the  dark  lady’s,”  and  never  used  by  any  one 
since  her  death; — and  then  the  child  gazed  wistfully  upwards,  as  if 
half  calling  to  mind  some  object  that  it  had  been  accustomed  to  behold 
there. 

Who  shall  say  what  limits  there  are  to  infant  memory'?  Who  may 
tell  what  vague  impressions  of  the  pale  cold  figure  that  was  wont  to 
abide  there,  and  which  was  the  only  shadowy  semblance  of  maternity 
that  had  ever  floated  before  the  child’s  vision,  might  not  at  that  moment 
have  wandered  into  its  brain,  and  inspired  one  natural  yearning  to  be- 
hold even  that  faint  shadow  once  again  in  its  earthly  form  ? 

The  attendant  women  observed  the  child’s  pause,  and  thoughtful 
look,  and  one  to  another  said  : — ■“  Poor  bairn,  she’s  minded  of  her  mo- 
ther !” 

“ Maybe,  she  sees  the  dark  lady’s  wraith was  the  rejoinder,  whis- 
pered in  an  awe-stricken  tone. 

The  old  nurse  Bethoc  went  softly  to  ^he  side  of  her  charge,  and 
hung  over  her,  telling  her  pretty  tales  to  amuse  her,  to  draw  off  her  at- 
tention from  the  dark  lady’s  seat,  from  which  she  gently  led  her  away, 
and  began  crooning  an  old  nursery  rhyme,  that  she  might  lull  her  to 
sleep,  and  so  efface  the  recollection  which  she  thought  might  have  dis- 
turbed the  child. 

For  some  time  the  little  G-ruoch  remained  thus  almost  entirely  in  the 
suite  of  apartments  that  had  been  her  mother’s ; tended  by  her  women, 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


109 


and  fondled,  and  petted,  and  indulged  by  them  and  the  faithful  old 
nurse,  Bethoc. 

The  means  of  air  and  exercise  were  supplied  by  a platform,  or  ram- 
part, of  the  castle,  which  closely  neighboured  this  suite  of  rooms,  and  on 
which  it  was  the  custom  for  the  women,  each  in  turn,  to  carry  the  child 
up  and  down,  whenever  the  weather  permitted  them  to  go  forth. 

By  degrees,  as  the  little  limbs  gained  strength  and  skill  in  walking, 
Gruoch  would  run  about  here  herself ; and  at  length,  it  was  a triumph  with 
Bethoc  to  carry  the  child  down  into  the  hall,  or  the  courtyard,  or  on  the 
battlements,  or  wherever  the  lord  of  Moray  might  be,  that  the  father 
should  have  the  joy  of  beholding  how  well  his  little  girl  throve,  and 
that  the  child  might  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  and  playing  with  her 
gentle  old  father. 

The  thane  loved  to  have  her  brought  to  him,  and  to  look  upon  the 
growing  beauty  of  his  little  daughter  : but  he  had  so  long  accustomed 
himself  to  see  that  his  presence  gave  no  joy,  and  to  believe  that  he  did 
not  possess  the  requisite  qualifications  to  render  himself  beloved  by  wo- 
mankind, that  he  seldom  detained  her  with  him  above  a few  minutes, 
but  gave  her  back  to  the  nurse’s  care  and  women’s  tendance,  as  to  so- 
ciety more  genial  than  his  own  could  be. 

With  a doting  nurse,  and  ministering  attendants,  the  little  Gruoch’s 
wishes  were  of  course  paramount ; and  it  soon  befel,  that  the  indulgence 
of  her  will,  the  right  of  command,  the  custom  of  seeing  herself  obeyed 
in  all  things,  became  habitual  to  her  at  her  earliest  age.  She  could 
scarcely  speak,  ere  her  voice  assumed  the  tone  of  authority ; and  long 
before  she  could  reckon  half  a dozen  years,  she  was  mistress  of  the  entire 
household. 

Her  father  yielded  to  her,  from  his  native  disposition,  and  from  af- 
fectionate tenderness  towards  the  child  of  his  old  age.  Bethoc  indulged 
her  as  the  darling  nursling  of  her  advanced  years,  and  as  all  that  was 
left  to  her  of  one  to  whom  she  had  been  attached  in  youth,  and  whom 
she  regretted  dead — for  Bethoc  was  one  of  the  few  who  had  truly  and 
devotedly  loved  u the  dark  lady.”  The  waiting-women,  one  and  all,  pet- 
ted and  spoiled  the  little  girl,  as  the  only  object  that  presented  itself  on 


110 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


which  to  indulge  their  feminine  propensities  for  fostering  and  cherishing 
all  that  is  young  and  helpless.  The  few  retainers  and  men-at-arms  that 
the  thane’s  impoverished  fortunes  enabled  him  to  maintain,  all  wor- 
shipped the  little  Gruoch  as  an  image  of  grace  and  beauty  and  infantine 
loveliness,  magnified  all  the  more  by  contrast  with  their  own  roughness 
and  uncouthness,  and  with  the  bare  unpolished  plainness  of  all  that  sur- 
rounded her. 

For  in  those  remote  times,  in  those  periods  of  semi-barbarism,  a 
thane’s  castle  was  no  fairy-bower,  no  haunt  of  elegance  and  refinement ; 
but  scantily-tapestried  walls,  strewed  floors,  rudely-covered  tables,  turret- 
chambers,  and  rough-hewn  battlements,  were  the  only  environments  that 
the  highest  Scottish  lady  could  then  boast. 

But  amid  such  a scene,  the  little  lady  G-ruoch  was  gay  and  happy ; 
for  she  was  sovereign  mistress  of  all  she  beheld, — rule  and  sovereignty 
being  the  dominant  desire  of  her  nature.  Short-sighted  aim  ! that  sees 
not  how  absolutely  such  worship  enthrals  the  soul ! making  slaves  of 
these  would-be  sovereigns  ! bidding  them  for  ever  bow  before  a self- 
created  idol ! and  cheating  them  with  the  perpetual  mockery  of  supreme 
sway,  while  enforcing  perpetuity  of  homage  from  themselves  ! 

As  soon  as  she  was  able  to  run  about  by  herself,  the  little  girl  found 
means  of  evading  the  nurse’s  wish  to  retain  her  constantly  within  her 
own  supervision ; and  she  would  stray  from  the  women’s  range  of  apart- 
ments, finding  her  way  all  over  the  castle  in  the  spirit  of  inquisitiveness, 
and  childish  love  of  investigation,  and  thirst  for  novelty. 

Sometimes  she  would  seek  out  her  father,  and  take  pleasure  in  seeing 
the  pleasure  that  always  lighted  up  his  venerable  face  at  the  sight  of 
hers — so  beaming,  so  bright  in  its  youthful  beauty.  She  would  linger 
near  him,  and  watch  him  fondle  his  dogs,  three  or  four  of  which,  of  the 
tall  Scotch  breed,  always  accompanied  his  steps,  or  surrounded  his  seat.* 
She  would  listen  to  the  quiet  tones  of  his  voice  as  they  spoke  encourage- 
ment to  his  favourites,  or  uttered  kindly  praise  and  affectionate  admira- 
tion towards  herself ; she  would  stand  close  to  him,  that  he  might  see 
how  tall  she  grew,  and  expatiate  on  the  strange  variation  there  was 
between  her  beauty  and  that  of  her  mother — the  one  so  dark,  the  other 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


Ill 


so  fair — tlie  one  with  ebon  tresses,  the  other  with  locks  like  the  golden 
beams  of  morning — the  one  with  those  full  flashing  orbs  of  sombre 
depth,  the  other  with  eyes  the  colour  of  the  azure  lake  when  it  reflects 
the  serene  expanse  of  a summer  sky. 

And  yet  there  was  a latent  expression,  a something  antagonistic,  in 
the  clear  beauty  of  that  fair  child.  Surpassingly  handsome  she  was ; 
but  yet  a look  there  was  in  those  blue  eyes,  that  marred  their  loveliness 
of  shape  and  colour,  and  seemed  sinisterly  to  contradict  their  attractive 
power.  In  the  mouth,  too,  round  those  full  and  rubious  lips,  and  amid 
those  exquisite  dimples,  there  played  certain  lines  that  presented  indica- 
tions of  a startling  contrast  of  will  and  unfeminine  inflexibility  with  so 
much  charm  of  feature,  which  might  have  produced  sensations  of  repul- 
sive surmise  to  one  accustomed  to  seek  charm  in  expression  rather  than 
in  linear  beauty. 

But  among  those  by  whom  she  was  surrounded,  there  were  no  such 
scrutinizers — no  such  fastidious  analyzers.  Her  fond  father  dwelt  with 
rapture,  and  almost  wonder,  upon  the  face  of  his  little  girl,  and  found 
naught  there  but  loveliness ; and  she,  gratified  with  praise,  would  often 
come  to  him  that  she  might  enjoy  that  which  he  so  constantly  and  pro- 
fusely lavished  upon  her.  But  sated  with  adulation,  and  accustomed  to 
indulgence,  she  soon  tired  of  so  monotonous  an  amusement,  and  she 
lingered  less  and  less  by  her  old  father’s  side,  and  strayed  farther  and 
oftener  in  search  of  more  congenial  entertainment,  than  his  quiet  voice, 
and  approving  looks  could  afford. 

She  was  fond  of  peering  into  the  armoury,  and  watching  the  man 
who  had  the  charge  of  the  arms,  perform  his  duties  of  cleaning,  burnish- 
ing, and  arranging  them,  and  keeping  them  in  order,  ready  for  use  in 
case  of  need  ; as  there  was  no  knowing  in  those  turbulent  times,  when 
a sudden  emergency  might  arise  for  the  lord  of  a castle  to  put  his  men 
under  arms  for  defence.  Here  she  would  loiter,  asking  a thousand 
questions  about  battle-axe,  pike,  dagger,  lance,  sword,  and  cross-bow ; 
and  as  the  armourer  polished  helmet,  morion,  cuirass,  corslet,  haber- 
f geon,  and  breastplate,  she  would  enquire  the  shape  and  meaning  of  each 
several  piece  of  coat-of-mail,  and  learn  curiously  the  use  of  every  sepa- 
rate weapon  that  she  saw. 


112 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


She  loved  too,  to  watch  the  men-at-arms  in  the  court-yard,  practising 
their  management  of  these  different  weapons,  and  she  would  note  with 
unwearied  interest  the  dexterity  and  skill  of  'the  retainers  in  these  war- 
like sports  and  exercises. 

There  was  a nook  behind  one  of  the  buttresses,  where  the  little  girl 
would  often  ensconce  herself,  whence  she  could  see  the  feats  of  the  men- 
at-arms  during  their  hours  of  exercise  on  the  sward  adjoining  the  court- 
yard of  the  castle.  Here  she  would  lurk,  and  watch,  unseen ; for  she 
had  one  day  found  her  way  out  of  the  lower  apartments  of  the  castle  by 
a small  dismantled  window,  or  narrow  outlet,  through  wrich  she  had 
crept  to  see  the  sword  exercise,  the  pike-tossing,  and  the  cross-bow 
shooting. 

There  was  one  man  she  remarked  who  was  peculiarly  skilful  in  the 
handling  of  all  sorts  of  weapons.  He  was  a tall,  stalwart  fellow,  singu- 
larly uncouth  and  ugly,  with  wild  shaggy  hair,  and  a ferocious  look. 
His  name  was  Grym.  But  he  uniformly  surpassed  all  his  companions 
in  adroitness,  bold  daring,  activity,  expertness,  and  success  in  his  feats 
of  arms.  So  to  this  large,  ungainly,  ill-favored,  but  triumphant  giant, 
did  the  child  take  a strong  fancy,  and  he  became  a sort  of  hero,  a personi- 
fication of  conquest  and  success,  a favorite  rallying  point  for  all  her 
wishes  and  interest  in  the  scene  of  contention. 

Once,  when  there  arose  a dispute  as  to  which  arrow  had  flown  the 
best,  and  hit  the  nearest  to  the  centre  of  the  target,  several  voices  con- 
tending clamorously  for  the  rival  claims  of  the  two  most  successful  bow- 
man,— Grym  and  Ivan, — the  little  girl  suddenly  sprang  forward  from 
her  nook,  and  joined  the  group  of  disputants,  loudly  and  eagerly  de- 
claring that  Grym  was  the  victor. 

“ Don’t  you  see  ! Don’t  you  see  !”  she  exclaimed,  pointing  up  to  the 
mark,  which  was  high  above  her  head ; “ That’s  his  shaft ! Bight  in 
the  clout !” 

“ I’ll  lift  you  up,  my  young  lady,”  said  one  of  the  men ; u and  you’ll 
then  see  that  Ivan’s  arrow  is  just  a point  nighest.” 

“ Let  Grym  lift  me  up ! Here  Grym  ! Take  me  up  ! Hold  me 
fast ! Here,  don’t  you  see,  all  of  you,”  shouted  the  child  in  all  the  ex- 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


113 


citement  of  proving  her  words,  and  awarding  the  victory  to  her  hero : 
while  with  one  hand  she  clung  round  the  neck  of  the  savage-looking 
archer,  and  with  the  other  pointed  triumphantly  to  the  spot  where  his 
arrow  rested : u Don’t  you  all  see  that  Grym’s  is  the  best  shaft  ?” 

The  child’s  excitement  communicated  itself  to  the  men,  and  they 
one  and  all  shouted — Ivan  and  his  partizans  as  eagerly  as  any— 
u Grym’s  is  the  best ! Grym  is  conqueror  !” 

From  that  day  Grym  was  the  avowed  favorite  and  playmate  of  the 
little  lady  Gruoch  ; and  his  fellows  were  prevented  from  feeling  any 
jealousy  at  this  preference,  in  the  oddity  of  the  association  ; for  it  was 
strange  to  see  the  fair  child,  a thing  of  smiles,  and  beauty,  and  grace, 
take  a fancy  to  that  grisly  man-at-arms,  and  cling  round  his  great  bull- 
neck,  and  nestle  within  his  huge  stalwart  arms,  and  make  him  carry  her 
about  from  place  to  place  to  show  her  all  the  curiosities  of  drawbridge, 
portcullis,  and  moat,  donjon-keep,  and  fortalice,  tower  and  battlement, 
platform  and  rampart,  embrasure  and  loop-hole,  outwork,  barbican, 
postern-gate,  turret,  and  buttressed  wall;  all  the  curious  places,  and 
out-of-the  way  nooks  and  corners  about  a strongly  defended  castle,  that 
possessed  so  wondrous  an  interest  for  an  inquisitive  and  restless  child. 

Bethoc  would  try  to  win  her  from  this  whimsical  preference,  and 
sought  to  detain  her  within  the  women’s  apartments  by  tales  and  legends 
that  she  thought  might  amuse  her  fancy,  and  prevent  her  seeking  enter- 
tainment from  companionship  and  pursuits  that  the  old  nurse  could  not 
but  think  unseemly  for  her  charge. 

She  would  tell  her  of  her  mother  ; of  her  lofty  nature,  of  her  high- 
birth,  of  her  ambitious  hopes ; of  her  regret  at  the  passive  disposition 
of  her  lord ; of  her  yearning  for  a son  who  might  inherit  the  united 
honors  of  the  noble  houses  from  which  he  sprang,  and  who  might  win 
renown  and  added  glory  by  his  deeds  of  arms.  She  would  tell  her 
many  a romantic  tradition  of  her  ancestors,  of  their  heroic  achieve- 
ments, of  their  martial  feats  on  the  battle-field,  of  their  noble  alliances, 
of  the  mingling  of  even  royal  blood  in  their  veins,  of  the  proud  assertion 
of  their  rights,  of  their  daring  exploits  in  maintenance  of  their  claims, 
of  their  keen  sense  of  honor,  and  of  their  deadly  resentment  of  injury. 


314 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


There  was  one  story  that  Bethoc  especially  loved  to  tell,  for  it  would 
always  win  G-ruoch’s  deep  attention,  and  enchain  her  to  the  old  nurse’s 
side  while  she  related  its  dark  terrors. 

It  was  of  how  Fanella,  the  lady  of  Fettercairn,  had  vowed  a fatal 
revenge  upon  the  reigning  king,  for  having  caused  the  death  of  her  son 
Cruthlint.  Of  how  she  had  been  sleepless  in  devising  means  for  the 
compassing  of  her  vengeance.  Of  how  she  had  caused  a goodly  tower, 
adorned  with  copper  finely  engraven  with  divers  flowers  and  images,  to 
be  built  adjoining  her  own  castle.  Withinside,  it  was  hung  about  with 
rich  arras  cloth,  wrought  costlywise  in  gold  and  silver.  Behind  this 
arras  were  cross-bows  set  ready  bent  with  sharp  quarrels  in  them.  In 
the  midst  was  placed  a fine  brazen  image,  in  likeness  of  the  king  himself, 
holding,  in  the  one  hand,  a fair  golden  apple  set  full  of  precious  stones, 
devised  with  such  art  and  cunning,  that  so  soon  as  it  should  be  seized, 
or  removed  never  so  small  a space,  the  cross-bows  would  immediately 
discharge  their  quarrels  with  great  force  and  violence. 

Fenella,  knowing  the  king  had  a taste  for  comely  buildings,  entreat- 
ed him  in  seeming  loyalty,  that  he  would  honor  her  poor  house  by  com- 
ing to  see  this  goodly  tower  that  she  had  caused  to  be  erected  ; and  when 
he  came  to  her  castle  of  Fettercairn,  she  entertained  him  in  sumptuous 
manner,  and  after  meat  she  led  the  king  to  behold  the  chamber  within 
the  tower.  Her  royal  guest  commended  much  the  costly  taste  of  the 
hangings  and  furniture,  and  marvelled  greatly  at  the  image  that  stood  in 
the  centre,  surveying  it  attentively,  and  asking  what  it  might  signify. 
The  Lady  Fenella  told  him  that  it  was  made  to  represent  his  own  royal 
person,  and  that  the  golden  apple  crusted  so  rich  with  emeralds,  sap- 
phires, topazes,  rubies,  and  turquoises,  had  been  provided  by  herself  as 
a gift  for  him.  This  she  besought  him  to  accept  in  good  part,  though 
not  in  value  worthy  to  be  offered  unto  his  princely  honor  and  high  dig- 
nity, and  though  it  in  so  slight  measure  carried  with  it  the  sentiments 
of  her  heart  towards  his  kingly  person. 

“ It  carried  hatred  and  death  with  it  to  the  murderer  of  her  son,” 
Gruoch  would  mutter,  as  she  kept  her  eyes  fastened  on  Bethoc,  devour- 
ing each  word  that  fell  from  the  nurse’s  lips. 


THE  THANE^S  DAUGHTER. 


115 


Bethoc  would  shake  her  aged  head,  and  speak  of  leaving  vengeance 
in  the  hands  of  Heaven : but  the  story  went  on  to  say,  that  the  lady  Fe- 
nella  framed  some  excuse  to  withdraw  from  the  king’s  side,  feigning  to 
search  for  something  in  a chest  or  coffer  that  stood  in  an  adjoining  closet. 
Then  the  king,  taking  much  delight  in  viewing  the  gems  and  orient 
stones,  and  wishing  the  nearer  to  inspect  their  rare  beauty,  stretched 
forth  his  hand  to  remove  the  apple,  which  he  had  no  sooner  done,  than 
incontinently  the  cross-bows  discharged  their  quarrels  so  directly  upon 
him,  that  he  fell  to  the  ground,  pierced  in  sundry  places,  and  there  lay 
stark  dead.  Meantime,  the  king’s  servants  still  waited  in  the  outer 
chamber,  awaiting  the  coming  forth  of  their  royal  master,  with  his  fair 
hostess.  But  after  long  abiding,  and  they  found  that  he  came  not  back, 
they  knocked  first  softly  at  the  door ; then  more  loudly ; then  rapped 
hard  and  clamorously ; and  lastly,  misdoubting  that  somewhat  had  hap- 
pened, they  broke  open  door  after  door,  until  at  length  they  came  into 
the  chamber  where  the  king  lay  cold  dead  upon  the  floor.  Then  the  cry 
and  alarm  was  raised  by  his  attendants,  and  the  lady  of  Fettercairn  was 
cursed  and  sought  for  everywhere,  all  men  accusing  her  of  having  com- 
mitted this  heinous  and  wicked  deed. 

“ And  Fenella  ?”  eagerly  whispered  the  young  auditress. 

When  she  beheld  the  king  drop  dead,  she  tarried  not  a moment,  but 
fled  secretly  away  by  a postern  door  into  a wood  hard  by,  where  she  had 
appointed  horses  to  wait  ready  for  her,  so  that  she  escaped  all  danger  of 
pursuit,  ere  the  king’s  death  was  discovered.  Fenella  was  safe,  but  she 
was  compelled  to  fly  her  country ; she  took  refuge  in  Ireland,  where  she 
was  fain  to  abide  in  exile  and  concealment. 

u But  she  gained  her  end  !”  was  G-ruoch’s  comment  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  tale. 

There  was  a wood  in  the  vicinity  of  the  castle  of  Moray,  where  the 
little  lady  Gruoch  loved  to  wander,  and  fancy  it  like  the  one  which  had 
favored  the  escape  of  Fenella  from  her  castle  of  Fettercairn.  She  would 
make  G-rym  carry  her  thither,  of  a bright  spring  or  summer  morning  ; 
and  here  she  would  play  about,  attended  only  by  her  gaunt  favorite,  and 


116 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


the  young  page,  Culen,  who,  with  a boy’s  sagacity  in  finding  out  what  he 
liked,  and  in  securing  it  when  found  out,  always  contrived  to  be  of  the 
party,  when  he  saw  Grym,  with  the  little  lady  in  his  arms,  take  the  path 
to  the  wood.  Culen  soon  ingratiated  himself  with  his  young  lady-mis- 
tress, by  a thousand  ingenious  devices.  Now  he  would  bring  her  a rus- 
tic crown  and  sceptre,  woven  skilfully  of  rushes  from  the  margin  of  the 
lake ; anon,  heaps  of  wild  flowers  to  adorn  her  mossy  throne  in  the 
wood  ; another  time,  feathers  from  the  eagle’s  wing,  or  the  jay’s,  which  he 
would  deftly  form  into  a sylvan  fan  for  her ; and  sometimes  he  would 
thread  scarlet  berries  into  chains  and  bracelets  to  hang  around  her  neck 
and  arms,  and  twine  amid  her  bright  gold  hair. 

These  boyish  offerings  were  graciously  accepted  by  the  little  lady, 
who  received  them  as  a sort  of  homage  due.  She  even  grew  to  take 
pleasure  in  seeing  the  page  constantly  form  one  in  the  association  that 
had  grown  between  herself  and  Grrym — but  she  always  treated  Culen  as 
a vassal  and  an  inferior,  while  to  Grrym  she  behaved  familiarly  and 
almost  fondly,  as  one  in  whom  she  recognised  that  which  she  could 
admire  and  respect. 

And  truly  there  was  that  in  the  uncouth  Grym  which  might  com- 
mand both  admiration  and  respect.  Not  only  was  there  the  power  of 
conquest,  and  the  assurance*  of  success  in  his  stalwart  proportions, 
which  had  originally  won  the  young  Gruoch’s  regard,  by  appealing 
forcibly  to  her  ruling  passion  for  supremacy  and  sovereignty  in  the 
abstract,  and  to  her  unconscious  tendency  to  attach  herself  to  their 
external  images  wherever  they  might  present  themselves, — not  only 
was  there  this  symbol  of  power  in  Grym,  but  there  was  a kind  heart, 
much  right  feeling,  and  good  sense,  beneath  the  rough  exterior  of  this 
huge  man-at-arms. 

He  had  a gruff  voice,  and  an  abrupt  mode  of  speaking ; but  he  had 
just  sentiments,  and  benevolent  feelings.  He  was  spare  and  curt  in 
words  ; but  his  heart  overflowed  with  honest  good-meaning.  His  bear- 
ing was  ungain,  his  features  were  harsh,  and  his  countenance  was  for- 
bidding ; but  he  would  not  have  hurt  a fly,  and  he  was  incapable  of  an 
ungenerous  thought  or  mean  action. 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


117 


He  was  keenly  sensible  of  the  fancy  the  beautiful  child,  Gruoch,  had 
taken  to  him.,  ugly  as  he  was  ; and  his  attachment  towards  his  young 
mistress  was  profound  and  devoted.  It  was  unexpressed,  save  in  action, 
but  it  was  none  the  less  ardent  for  its  smothered  light.  It  burned 
steadily  though  silently,  within  the  recesses  of  his  own  heart. 

It  was  like  a potent  spell,  the  hold  which  the  young  beauty  had  upon 
the  affections  of  those  around  her.  The  old  thane,  her  father  ; Bethoc, 
the  aged  nurse : Grym,  the  brave  man-at-arms  ; Culen,  the  young  page  ; 
all  doted  upon  her  very  footsteps,  and  yielded  implicitly  to  the  fascina- 
tion which  she  exercised  over  their  feelings.  It  seemed  impossible  to 
behold  the  fair  brilliant  being,  and  not  worship  the  image  of  trium- 
phant beauty  she  presented.  Her  very  habit  of  command  seemed  to 
heighten  her  charms,  and  imperatively  to  claim  homage,  admiration, 
and  regard. 

She  was  one  day  straying  in  the  wood,  attended  only  by  Grym, — 
Culen  having  gone  to  seek  for  some  water-lilies,  that  he  had  noted 
on  the  shores  of  the  lake,  and  intended  to  weave  into  a garland  for  her, 
» — when  suddenly,  on  approaching  the  rustic  seat  of  moss  which  she  was 
accustomed  to  occupy  as  her  sylvan  throne  when  she  rested  in  the 
wood,  Gruoch  perceived  a figure  seated  there,  in  a half-reclining  atti- 
tude. It  was  that  of  a Highlander.  He  seemed  faint  and  way-worn, 
and  drooped  his  head  forward  upon  his  hands,  so  that  his  face  was  hid- 
den from  them  as  they  approached.  At  first  Gruoch  bade  Grym  go 
and  bid  the  man  retire  from  the  seat  which  was  hers — her  throne  ; but 
the  next  moment,  noting  his  weary  and  dejected  attitude,  she  added 
“ Stay,  the  man  seems  tired ; let  him  come  to  the  castle  for  rest  and 
refreshment.” 

The  Highlander  raised  his  head  slowly.  “ There  is  death  at  the 
castle !”  he  exclaimed  solemnly. 

Then  steadily  regarding  the  lady  Gruoch  for  a few  seconds,  he  add- 
ed : — “ What  is  it  I trace  on  that  fair  young  brow  ! But  such  weird 
shall  not  be  read  by  me  for  one  that  has  just  proffered  rest  and  refresh- 
ment.” And  he  sank  into  his  former  attitude. 

“ Go,  Grym,  and  assist  him  to  rise  said  the  little  girl.  u What 
does  he  mean  ? Is  he  sick  ?” 


118 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


Grym  shook  his  head,  and  looked  round  for  Culen,  that  he  might 
send  for  aid  to  the  castle  ; for  he  was  resolved  not  to  quit  his  young 
lady’s  side. 

The  page  came  up  at  the  moment,  and  Grym  despatched  him  for 
some  of  his  fellows,  that  they  might  come  to  the  stranger’s  assistance, 
and  support  him  to  the  castle. 

“ Take  me  home,  Grym,”  whispered  little  Gruoch.  u Take  me 
up  in  your  arms,  I want  to  hold  by  you.  I don’t  like  him  ! Take  me 
away !” 

Grym  felt  the  child  tremble,  as  he  lifted  her  up  in  his  arms,  and 
bore  her  from  the  spot ; for  she  had  thought  upon  what  the  Highlander 
had  said ; and,  as  will  sometimes  happen  with  sounds  unnoted  at  the 
moment  of  utterance,  their  sense  recurring  afterwards,  his  words  now 
conveyed  an  import  to  her  mind  that  they  had  failed  in  doing  at  the 
time. 

u What  did  he  mean  by  £ death  in  the  castle,’  Grym  ?”  whispered  she, 
after  they  had  proceeded  some  paces. 

Grym  only  shook  his  head  again. 

“ Speak,  Grym — you  must  speak — I want  to  hear  your  voice,”  said 
the  child,  grasping  his  shaggy  hair,  and  pulling  his  face  round  towards 
her  own.  “ Look  at  me,  and  tell  me,  Grym  !” 

“ God  grant  it  be  not  second-sight ! Some  of  these  Highlanders 
have  the  gift,”  muttered  Grym. 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? £ Second-sight !’  I don’t  know  what  you 

mean,  now,  Grym.  Speak,  speak !”  And  the  little  lady  tugged  and 
pulled  at  the  shaggy  locks,  in  the  vehemence  of  her  eagerness  to  urge 
the  taciturn  Grym  to  explain. 

We  shall  know  soon  enough,  when  we  reach  the  castle  said  he. 

Gruoch  said  no  more,  for  she  had  fallen  into  a fit  of  thought.  She 
could  not  help  dreading  that  something  fatal  had  happened  to  her  father. 
Many  indistinct  feelings,  came  upon  her  of  kindliness  towards  that  gentle 
old  man,  who  had  never  thwarted  her,  never  spoken  harsh  words  to  her, 
never  crossed  or  chidden  her,  but  was  all  indulgence,  and  praise,  and 
fond  admiration  for  her.  She  had  an  imperfect  sense  of  having  neglected 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


119 


him,  of  having  disregarded  his  wish  to  have  her  near  him,  of  having 
almost  despised  his  partiality  for  her,  and  felt  his  fondling  to  be  insipid, 
wearisome,  and  distasteful.  All  these  thoughts  were  vague,  and  dimly 
felt  by  her ; but  still  they  flitted  athwart  the  little  girl’s  fancy,  and 
added  a sting  to  the  pain  and  grief  which  she  began  to  fear  might  await 
her.  She  was  still  a mere  child,  but  she  was  old  enough  to  feel  what 
remorse  might  be,  added  to  the  tidings  of  a father’s  death,  even  though 
she  could  not  have  given  a name  to  the  feeling  itself. 

She  had  scarcely  crossed  the  drawbridge  and  court-yard  of  the  castle, 
than  she  threw  herself  out  of  G-rym’s  arms,  sprang  to  the  ground,  and 
rushed  into  the  hall  where  her  father  usually  sat,  surrounded  by  his 
dogs,  near  the  hearth.  There,  in  his  wonted  place,  she  found  him  ; and 
with  a warmth  of  gratitude  and  love  that  had  never  before  swelled  her 
heart,  she  flung  herself  into  his  arms,  weeping  and  sobbing  upon  his 
breast,  while  she  hugged  him  passionately  and  repeatedly. 

Surprised  and  alarmed  at  the  violence  of  her  emotion,  the  old  thane 
enquired  what  had  happened  to  grieve  and  terrify  his  darling. 

Grym  stepping  forward  to  relate  the  encounter  in  the  wood,  and  her 
father  dreading  that  to  hear  it  repeated,  would  only  increase  the  agita- 
tion of  his  child,  desired  some  one  to  go  and  fetch  Bethoc,  that  she 
might  soothe  and  comfort  her  young  mistress  ; then  bethinking  himself, 
he  added  : — ■“  No,  no,  not  Bethoc  ! Let  some  one  go  and  bid  Eoda  and 
Lula  come  for  their  young  lady.” 

And  thus  this  kind-meaning,  but  weak  parent  missed  the  occasion  of 
himself  ministering  to  the  mind’s  health  of  his  daughter  ; and  delegated 
to  others  the  charge  of  bestowing  sympathy  and  solace,  which  should 
have  been  his  own  care  in  the  hour  of  grief,  alarm,  and  awakened 
conscience. 

Soon  after  Gruoch  had  been  led  away  by  her  women,  she  learned 
that  the  reason  Bethoc  had  not  been  summoned  to  her  aid,  was,  that  the 
poor  old  nurse  had  been  seized  with  sudden  paralysis  that  morning,  and 
had  expired  not  half  an  hour  before  her  young  mistress  returned  to  the 
castle. 

“ Then  hers  was  the  death  predicted  !”  thought  Gruoch.  And  in 


120 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


the  relief  of  finding  it  was  not  her  father’s,  that  of  the  aged  and  faithful 
Bethoc  was  comparatively  unfelt. 

When  those  of  the  household  who  had  been  summoned  by  Culen  to 
the  assistance  of  the  Highlander,  reached  the  wood,  they  found  no  trace 
of  him.  He  had  departed, — vanished,  from  the  spot ; and  had  not 
Grym  and  the  page  both  seen  him,  the  men  would  have  believed  that 
his  having  been  there  at  all  was  a mere  fancy  of  their  young  mistress’s. 
As  it  was,  his  sudden  appearance  and  disappearance,  joined  to  the  cir- 
cumstance of  Bethoc’s  death  taking  place  precisely  when  the  stranger’s 
mysterious  words  had  foretold  the  event,  caused  the  matter  to  be  ad- 
verted to  in  whispers  only,  and  there  were  few  among  the  retainers  of 
the  castle  of  Moray  who  did  not  shudder  when  the  Highlander  of  the 
wood  was  mentioned.  But  in  course  of  time,  the  circumstance  faded 
from  their  thoughts,  and  it  was  not  only  no  more  spoken  of  among 
them,  but  no  more  remembered. 

A year  or  two  passed  away ; and  for  somewhile  after  Bethoc’s 
death,  Gruoch’s  interest  and  attention  were  drawn  towards  her  old 
father  in  a degree  that  they  had  never  been  before.  She  would  hang 
about  his  chair,  and  watch  his  face,  and  speak  dutifully  to  him,  and  try 
to  minister  to  his  little  daily  comforts,  and  seek  to  enjoy  his  presence, 
and  to  give  him  more  of  hers ; but  there  was  something  essentially 
unsympathetic  in  their  natures  that  did  not  harmonize,  or  render  their 
companionship  a comfort  or  a joy  to  either  of  them.  Never  demonstra- 
tive or  affectionate  in  her  manner,  she  felt  awkward  and  ill  at  ease  in 
the  presence  of  one  whose  gentleness  and  soft  manners  seemed  to  call 
for  some  corresponding  suavity  on  her  part.  There  was  a perverse 
interchange  in  their  respective  positions,  as  it  were.  The  father,  from 
his  submissive,  easy  disposition,  shrinking  from  authority,  which  he 
neither  exercised  himself,  nor  resisted  from  others  ; the  daughter,  wil- 
ful, imperious,  accustomed  to  dictate, — they  seemed  unfitly  associated  as 
parent  and  child.  Their  relations  seemed  reversed,  and  produced  an 
untoward  assimilation. 

She  would  sit  at  her  father’s  feet,  and  gaze  up  into  his  face,  and 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


121 


think  upon  these  things  ; and  wonder  how  it  should  be,  that  with  the 
sincere  and  strong  attachment  which  she  felt  for  him, — an  attach- 
ment that  had  caused  her  to  start  with  terror  from  the  possibility  of 
losing  him, — still  that  there  should  be  withal  so  little  of  happiness  or 
delight  in  their  being  together.  And  yet  that  mild  face  ! That  snow- 
white  hair ! Those  bland  eyes  and  mouth ! Surely  she  felt  very 
fondly,  very  pitifully  towards  so  much  meekness  and  softness?  Yes, 
she  did.  But  it  was  that  very  pity,  that  very  mingling  of  something 
akin  to  compassion  which  pervaded  all  her  feelings  towards  him,  that 
prevented  the  fulness  of  a daughter’s  love — the  joy  that  such  love 
should  create. 

Not  pity  and  compassion,  but  respect  and  reverence,  are  the  true 
guiding  lights  that  should  direct  a child’s  gaze  to  its  parent,  and  that 
should  shed  a glory  and  a crowning  beauty  around  a parent’s  brow  ; — 
and  it  was  the  lack  of  these  natural  rays  that  darkened  and  abated  the 
joy  of  love  which  should  have  arisen  from  Grruoch’s  affection  for  her 
father. 

One  evening  as  she  sat  there,  on  a low  stool  at  his  feet,  gazing  as 
usual  into  his  face,  and  thinking  of  what  Bethoc  had  told  her  of  her 
mother’s  regret  that  there  should  have  been  so  little  of  martial  ardour, 
of  aspiring  in  his  nature,  so  total  an  absence  of  ambition,  of  thirst  for 
preferment  or  advancement  of  any  kind,  Grruoeh  thought  how  ardently 
she  longed  to  pour  some  of  her  own  spirit  into  that  placid  nature  ; howT 
she  would  willingly  infuse  some  of  her  own  youth  and  vitality  into  his 
veins,  where  the  blood  flowed  so  tamely  and  sluggishly ; how  eagerly 
she  would  part  with  some  of  her  own  vigour  and  strength,  to  impart 
energy  and  impulse  to  those  aged  limbs,  those  supine  and  flaccid 
muscles. 

Her  pity  for  such  infirmity  almost  assumed  the  poignancy  of  con- 
tempt. “ Where  sufferings  are  so  passive,”  thought  she,  “ what  wonder 
that  the  heel  of  the  tyrant  crushes  ? Patience  encourages  oppression. 
Submission  courts  fresh  wrong.  Contentment  beneath  such  injuries 
shows  like  crime.  Would  that  the  old  man  possessed  my  sense  of  in- 
flicting evil,  my  spirit  to  resist  it,  my  youth  and  activity  to  avenge 


122 


THE  THANE'S  DAUGHTER. 


f and  redress  !”  She  thought  upon  the  shame  of  seeing  the  wealth  of  a 
noble  house  mulcted  to  feed  the  royal  avarice  (for  Malcolm  II,  the  then 
reigning  king,  had  grown  covetous  and  grasping  in  his  old  age,  and  op- 
pressed his  nobles  with  incessant  severity) ; she  thought  upon  the  wrong 
and  bitter  degradation  of  claims  unmaintained,  of  extortions  tamely 
submitted  to,  of  honors  unsought,  of  injustice  unresisted  and  unresent- 
ed, until  her  eyes  sparkled  and  her  cheeks  glowed  with  the  burning 
thoughts  that  possessed  her.  Her  father  happened  to  look  upon  her 
upturned  face  at  this  moment,  and  started  at  the  images  he  beheld  of 
the  brooding  wrath  and  vengeance  that  rankled  at  her  heart,  and  cast 
their  reflex  upon  her  countenance. 

There  was  something  so  appalling  in  this  antagonistic  expression, 
which  animated  features  of  such  exquisite  beauty,  that  even  her  unob- 
servant father  could  not  but  perceive  its  effects,  and  he  exclaimed  : — 
“What’s  the  matter,  my  darling?  You  look  as  Fenella  of  Fettercairn 
might  have  looked,  child,  when  she  led  my  royal  ancestor  to  the  fatal 
tower-chamber.  Don’t  look  in  that  way,  darling.  And  the  old  thane 
passed  his  hand  over  his  child’s  beautiful  face,  as  if  to  remove  the  ter- 
rible look  that  marred  its  loveliness. 

“And  who  was  Fenella?”  asked  Gruoch. 

“ 0,  she  was  an  ancestress  of  your  mother’s ; but  don’t  let  us  think 
about  Fenella — it’s  a dark  story — and  not  fit  for  my  bright  beauty — my 
innocent  child.”  He  patted  her  fair  head,  and  smoothed  down  her  long 
golden  locks ; and  with  the  fatal  weakness  which  was  a part  of  his  ex- 
ceeding gentleness,  he  evaded  present  perplexity,  instead  of  seizing  the 
occasion  to  administer  wholesome  instruction, — to  inculcate  salutary  ad- 
monition and  precept. 

Gruoch  held  down  her  head,  and  thought  within  herself  that  Bethoc 
had  already  told  her  the  story,  so  that  she  need  not  care  for  her  father’s 
evasion.  She  felt  that  he  had  put  her  off  with  this  slight  answer,  and 
she  therefore  indulged  the  triumph  of  knowing  that  Ins  intention  was 
foiled  by  her  previous  acquaintance  with  the  tale  he  would  have  con- 
cealed. 

“ He  does  not  care  to  tell  me  anything,”  thought  she.  “ He  does  not 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


123 


care  to  talk  to  me.  He  is  contented  to  sit  there  quietly,  hardly  looking 
at  me,  with  his  hand  upon  my  head.”  She  half  withdrew  it  from  be- 
neath his  touch,  at  the  moment,  with  a suppressed  sound  of  annoyance. 
u He  strokes  my  hair,  and  pats  my  head,  just  as  he  caresses  his  hounds. 
I wonder  whether  he  loves  me  better  than  one  of  those  dogs.” 

After  a time,  when  the  train  of  her  reflections  had  a little  softened, 
and  were  somewhat  less  bitter,  she  looked  up  again  towards  her  father’s 
face.  It  was  serene  and  calm  as  usual,  and  the  eyes  were  closed.  He 
had  fallen  asleep  quietly,  with  his  hand  upon  his  child’s  fair  head  ; there 
was  a look  of  deep  repose,  and  an  almost  holy  benignity  in  his  aspect, 
which  touched  her,  as  the  thought  crossed  her  mind  that  it  was  merci- 
fully sleep,  and  not  death,  which  she  gazed  upon. 

“ Kind  old  father  !”  she  muttered.  “ He  does  love  me  ; and  I love 
him  !” 

And  Gruoch  stepped  softly  on  to  the  little  stool  from  which  she  had 
risen,  and  leaned  over  him,  and  kissed  the  face  of  her  father  as  he  slept. 

But  gradually  the  old  restlessness  returned ; and  Gruoch  found  the 
constant  companionship  of  her  parent  as  irksome  as  ever.  She  loved 
him  (as  has  been  said),  and  felt  dutifully  towards  him  ; more  affection- 
ately, perhaps,  since  the  emotion  of  anxiety  she  had  experienced  for  his 
life ; but  after  a time,  she  stayed  with  him  but  a brief  portion  of  the 
day.  She  resumed  her  old  haunts,  renewed  her  association  with  Grym, 
sought  her  former  pursuits,  and  learned  to  add  new  and  other  amuse- 
ments to  those  she  had  formerly  found  in  company  with  her  ungain  fa- 
vorite, and  the  young  page,  Culen. 

The  latter  had  now  grown  a tall  stripling ; but  his  devotion  to  his 
young  lady-mistress  bore  full  proportion  to  his  growth.  It  increased 
with  his  height ; which  is  not  always  the  case  with  the  liking  of  boys,  at 
his  age.  A boy  will  often  feel  a strong  attachment  to  a little  girl,  while 
they  are  both  so  young,  as  to  make  them  mere  children  together ; but  when 
he  starts  up  into  a tall  lad,  a youthful  man,  he  is  apt  to  acquire  notions 
of  importance  and  superiority,  that  make  him  treat  the  little  girl  as  a 
child  still,  while  he  considers  himself  a man. 


124 


THE  THANE7 S DAUGHTER. 


Not  only,  however,  did  the  authoritative  manner,  and  commanding 
style  of  beauty,  that  distinguished  the  young  lady  G-ruoch,  tend  to  pre- 
serve her  influence  over  the  lad’s  feelings  ; but  her  superior  rank,  and 
relative  position  with  himself,  served  to  maintain  respect  and  admiration 
on  his  part  towards  her.  Her  commanding  mien  has  been  more  than 
once  alluded  to,  but  this  arose  from  no  advantage  of  height.  Her  figure 
was  small  and  slight,  her  stature  diminutive,  her  complexion  delicately 
fair,  which  gave  her  the  appearance  of  being  younger  than  she  really  was  ; 
but  the  effect  of  her  personal  charms  upon  all  those  within  the  sphere  of 
her  influence  was  potent,  impressive,  and  irresistible.  Many  little  women 
have  been  known  to  possess  this  ascendency  over  mankind. 

But  she  was  still  a very  young  girl,  when  once,  she  and  G-rym  hap- 
pened to  be  practising  with  bow  and  arrows  at  a mark,  that  had  been 
set  up  at  one  end  of  the  long  platform  on  the  ramparts  of  the  castle, 
which  has  before  been  alluded  to  as  adjoining  the  women’s  range  of 
apartments.  This  was  a favorite  pastime  with  her,  and  she  had  attain- 
ed some  skill  under  the  teaching  of  the  veteran  man-at-arms.  She  was 
just  in  the  act  of  fixing  a fresh  shaft,  and  preparing  to  take  aim  again, 
when  her  eye  caught  sight  of  the  page,  who  approached  along  the  range 
of  platform,  tossing  lightly  up  and  down  something  which  he  held  in  his 
hand,  and  which  was  gay  and  parti-coloured. 

u What  is  that,  Culen  % A ball ! And  how  light,  and  how  well- 
made  ! Is  it  for  me  ?” 

“ Yes,  my  lady,  it  is  for  you.  I made  it,  hoping  you  would  like  to 
have  it.” 

“ It  is  very  handsome  ! Thank  you,  Culen  ; I like  it  very  much. 
How  well  you  have  made  it ! How  bright  the  colours  are  ! And  how 
well  it  flies  !” 

The  young  lady  tossed  the  ball  high  in  the  air,  and  watched  it  with 
her  upturned  face,  and  sprang  forward  to  catch  it  as  it  fell. 

“ Throw  it  straight  up,  or  you’ll  pitch  it  over  into  the  court-yard 
below,  my  lady,”  said  Grym,  as  he  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  plat- 
form, to  collect  the  arrows  from  the  target,  ready  for  his  young  mistress 
when  she  might  choose  to  resume  the  sport,  after  tiring  of  her  new 
plaything. 


THE  THANE'S  DAUGHTER. 


125 


She  continued  for  some  minutes  tossing  up  the  ball,  and  watching 
the  flying  gay  colours ; while  the  page  stood  by,  to  look  upon  the  bright 
beautiful  face,  the  graceful  form  that  bounded  to  and  fro  in  agile 
pursuit. 

When  she  ceased  for  a moment,  panting,  smiling,  and  out  of  breath, 
Culen  said ; — “ I have  something  else  to  show  you,  that  I think  will 
please  your  ladyship  ; I found  it  out  yesterday.  There  are  plenty 
about  the  castle  heights ; but  this  one  is  so  near  that  you  can  see  right 
into  it,  and  watch  the  birds.” 

The  page  stepped  upon  a stone  ledge  which  formed  a kind  of  seat  in 
a recess  of  the  battlemented  outer  wall  that  skirted  the  platform  ; and 
signed  to  his  young  mistress  that  she  should  silently  follow  his  exam- 
ple, and  peep  over.  She  climbed  up  by  his  side ; and  looked  over  the 
ridge  of  the  wall,  in  the  direction  of  his  finger.  Upon  a slight  jutting 
point, — a timeworn  inequality  of  the  wall,  a pair  of  martlets  had  built 
their  nest ; and  from  the  spot  where  the  young  lady  and  the  page  stood, 
they  could  see  the  callow  nestlings  with  their  gaping  mouths  ; they 
could  watch  the  parent  birds  take  short  wheeling  flights,  and  return  to 
hover  at  the  opening  of  the  nest,  and  supply  their  young  cues  with  food. 

For  some  time  Gruoch  continued  to  watch  this  pretty  sight  with  in- 
terest ; then  she  stepped  down  from  the  stone  seat,  and  began  to  toss 
her  ball  again.  Suddenly  it  swerved  in  its  upward  flight,  and  fell  just 
beyond  the  wall. 

The  page  sprang  to  the  spot  he  had  just  quitted,  and  exclaimed  : — 
“ I see  it ! It  has  lodged  just  below  the  nest ! Look  ! On  that  frieze, 
that  range  of  fretwork  just  beneath  !” 

“ I see  it ! I see  it !”  cried  Gruoch,  who  had  stepped  up  again  by 
his  side.  “ It  looks  quite  near  ! What  a pity  we  can’t  reach  it ! 0 

my  beautiful  ball !” 

“ If  I had  but  a ledge  ever  so  small  to  set  my  foot  upon,  I could  get 
it ; I know  I could  !”  exclaimed  Culen.  “ It’s  quite  close,  I could  be 
over  in  a moment !” 

“ Would  you  venture?”  said  his  young  mistress,  looking  at  him 
approvingly. 


126 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


“ That  I would  ! I could  get  it  in  an  instant,  if  I had  but  a spot  to 
step  my  foot  upon — ever  such  a point  would  do  ! If  the  martlet’s  nest 
were  not  there,  now,  that  would  be  quite  room  enough  !” 

“ But  we  can  soon  dislodge  the  nest,  if  that’s  all !”  exclaimed 
Gruoch.  “ Here’s  one  of  Grym’s  long  shafts — that’ll  do  exactly  to 
poke  it  off  with.” 

“ Oh  no  !”  said  the  page  hastily. 

“ Are  you  afraid  ?”  said  she,  looking  at  him  abruptly. 
u No,  not  that ; but  I don’t  like — I can’t  push  the  nest  off,”  said 
Culen. 

“ Then  I will ! Give  me  the  arrow  !”  she  exclaimed. 

Gruoch  leaned  over  the  edge ; fixed  the  point  of  the  arrow  into  the 
caked  mud  and  earth  which  fastened  the  nest  to  the  jutting  point ; 
loosened  it ; raised  it ; and  in  another  moment,  the  martlet’s  home 
with  its  unfledged  tenants,  spun  whirling  through  the  air,  and  was  scat- 
tered to  pieces,  striking  against  the  buttresses  and  rough  hewn  walls. 
She  stayed  not  to  note  its  career,  but  turned  to  the  page. 

“Now,  Culen  ! It  was  a brave  offer  ! Have  you  courage?  I will 
hold  your  hand  firm  ! Give  it  me.” 

The  page  seized  the  beautiful  little  hand  that  was  held  out  to  him, 
and  taking  the  arrow  in  the  other,  that  he  might  reach  and  secure  the 
soft  ball  with  it,  he  climbed  over  the  edge  of  the  outer  wall,  which  was 
narrower  there,  on  account  of  the  deep  recess  that  was  made  in  its 
thickness,  and  formed  the  ledge  on  which  they  stood. 

But  when  he  set  his  foot  upon  the  jutting  point  which  had  lately 
held  the  nest,  and  then  planted  the  other  foot  on  the  same  spot,  and 
after  that,  carefully  stooped  down,  and  stretched  his  arm  out,  so  as  to 
stick  the  arrow  into  the  ball,  that  he  might  raise  it,  and  convey  it  to  the 
top  of  the  wall, — he  had  no  sooner  effected  this,  than  he  suddenly  felt 
his  head  reel,  and  his  eyes  swim  at  the  unaccustomed  height  over  which 
he  hung  suspended,  merely  sustained  by  that  frail  support. 

He  closed  his  eyes  for  an  instant,  and  struggled  to  nerve  himself 
boldly  against  the  thought  of  the  small  point  on  which  he  stood,  and  to 
shut  out  the  view  of  the  depth  beneath  him. 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


127 


Gruoch  felt  the  spasmodic  twitch  that  these  sensations  communicated 
to  the  hand  she  grasped. 

a Keep  firm,  Culen  ! Hold  fast  my  hand  ! I have  yours  tight !” 
And  the  small  hand  never  trembled,  or  wavered,  but  clutched  close, 
like  a vice. 

Her  voice  did  him  good ; her  tone  of  resolution  inspired  him, 
her  steady  grasp  encouraged  him ; and  he  was  enabled  to  recall  his 
dizzied  senses. 

He  looked  up,  and  as  he  beheld  that  exquisite  face  leaning  over 
towards  him,  anxiety  and  interest  in  each  lineament,  and  wish  for  his 
success  beaming  in  every  feature,  he  flung  up  the  ball  from  the  point  of 
the  arrow,  and  strove  to  regain  the  top  of  the  wall. 

But  on  raising  his  arm  to  the  edge,  he  found  he  should  not  be  able 
to  obtain  sufficient  purchase, — even  when  he  should  gain  the  assistance 
of  the  other  hand  which  was  now  held  by  Gruoch,— to  enable  him  to 
draw  himself  up  that  height.  The  point  upon  which  he  stood  afforded 
too  little  space,  the  weight  of  his  body  was  too  great,  to  allow  of  his 
climbing  up  again  unassisted. 

The  page  cast  one  look  of  mute  dismay  towards  his  young  mistress. 

She  perceived  his  peril. 

u Keep  a brave  heart,  Culen!  Hold  my  hand  steadily!  You  are 
safe,  fear  not !”  she  exclaimed.  “ Here,  Grym  ! Grym  ! Come  here  ; 
make  haste.  Help,  Grym  ! — help  !” 

The  whole  scene  has  occupied  some  time  to  relate ; but  it  had  in 
fact  passed  so  rapidly,  that  by  no  means  a long  time  had  elapsed  since 
Grym  had  retreated  to  the  other  end  of  the  platform  to  fetch  the  arrows. 
While  occupied  in  collecting  them,  he  had  not  perceived  what  had  been 
going  on  at  that  distance  ; but  he  now  hastened  to  the  spot,  on  hearing 
his  young  lady’s  call  for  assistance. 

He  soon  perceived  the  emergency ; and  hardly  giving  utterance  to 
his  thought “ What  have  these  children  been  about  ?”  he  leaned 
over  the  top  of  the  wall,  and  seizing  Culen’s  hand  from  Gruoch  in  his 
own  herculean  grip,  he  drew  him  carefully,  but  readily,  from  his  peril- 
ous position. 


128 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


The  first  impulse  of  the  kind-hearted  bow-man,  was  to  hug  the  lad 
in  his  arms,  and  to  enquire  whether  he  was  hurt ; the  next  was  to  shake 
him  by  the  scuff  of  his  neck,  and  to  ask  him  gruffly,  66  What  d’ye  mean 
by  playing  such  fool’s  tricks,  master  page  ? Don’t  you  see  how  you’ve 
frightened  my  young  lady,  here  ?” 

And  as  they  both  looked  at  Gruoch,  they  saw  her  turn  pale  ; she 
staggered  forward,  and  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground,  had  not  Grym 
caught  her  in  his  arms. 

“ Poor  lamb  !”  he  muttered,  as  he  bore  her  gently  to  her  own  apart- 
ments, to  recover  ; u She’s  as  tender-hearted  as  she’s  beautiful.” 

“ And  she  feels  thus  for  me !”  whispered  Culen’s  heart,  as  he 
stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  his  cheek  flushed,  and  his  chest  heaving,  at 
the  thought. 

They  were  wrong.  Neither  the  page  nor  the  man-at-arms  guessed 
that  her  swoon  was  the  -effect  of  mere  physical  sympathy ; a sickening 
sense  of  danger  past ; a reaction  of  the  nerves, — braced  for  the  mo- 
ment by  strength  of  will,  with  an  object  in  view, — but  suddenly  relaxed 
from  their  tension,  by  the  native  weakness  of  a frame  less  powerful 
than  her  spirit. 

Years  passed  on.  The  handsome  girl  became  a confirmed  beauty  ; 
the  wilful  child  became  the  determined  woman ; for  with  such  a charac- 
ter as  hers,  youth  early  acquires  the  self-possession  and  decision  which 
in  softer  natures  belongs  only  to  a more  advanced  maturity : and 
Gruoch,  still  in  her  non-age,  and  in  person  singularly  delicate,  was  yet 
in  spirit,  in  bearing,  in  formed  opinion,  a woman. 

Her  affection  for  her  father  was  the  tenderest  sentiment  she  felt ; 
but  it  was  the  tenderness  of  pity,  of  protection.  Her  partiality  for 
Grym  was  the  most  active  preference  she  had ; and  this  displayed  itself 
in  familiar  treatment,  esteem  for  his  good  qualities,  confidence,  com- 
panionship, and  mutual  ease  of  intercourse.  Her  liking  for  the  page 
partook  of  kindly  tolerance  ; and  she  accepted  his  services,  and  his  de- 
votion to  her  every  wish,  as  those  of  a faithful  serf,  of  of  an  attached  and 
favorite  spaniel.  She  had  ever  been  accustomed  to  regard  him  in  the 


THE  THANE7S  DAUGHTER- 


129 


light  of  entire  inferiority,  so  that  he  scarcely  presented  himself  to  her 
mind  as  one  of  the  same  race  with  herself,  and  she  would  as  soon  have 
dreamed  of  one  of  her  father’s  hounds  conceiving  a passion  for  her,  as 
have  entertained  the  most  remote  suspicion  of  the  one  which  glowed  in 
the  heart  of  the  brave  and  handsome  Culen. 

His  very  personal  advantages  were  unnoted  by  her  as  belonging  to 
manly  beauty.  He  seemed  scarce  a man,  to  her ; he  was  a page,  a re- 
tainer, a servant — no  more. 

The  constant  sense  of  his  subordinate  state,  rendered  her  blind  to  the 
traces  of  feeling  in  him,  as  to  the  traits  which  exteriorly  distinguished 
him  ; she  was  as  far  from  guessing  the  love  that  lurked  in  his  heart,  as 
she  was  from  perceiving  the  graces  that  adorned  his  person ; and  she  as 
little  noted  the  evidences  of  the  passion  that  burned  within,  as  the  eyes 
themselves,  which  shot  forth  such  ardent  expression.  The  altered  voice, 
the  changed  colour,  the  checked  respiration,  the  agitated  frame,  at  her 
unexpected  approach,  or  her  sudden  address,  no  more  struck  her  than 
did  the  well-favored  countenance,  the  handsome  figure,  or  the  comely 
bearing  of  the  young  man.  Had  he  possessed  the  brilliant  advantages 
of  nobility,  or  even  gentle  blood,  it  might  have  lent  her  light  to  discern 
his  native  merits, — but  wanting  this  grace,  the  rest  were  as  naught  in 
her  eyes.  She  was  not  even  aware  of  their  existence. 

One  evening  she  had  been  pacing  the  castle  platform,  enjoying  the 
purity  of  the  mountain  air,  and  the  pleasant  warmth  of  the  sun,  which 
shed  a glowing  beauty  upon  all*  around, — valley,  lake,  and  hill  lying 
steeped  in  the  golden  light,  ere  the  setting  glory  should  depart.  She 
was  attended  as  usual  by  Grym  and  Culen,  with  the  former  of  whom  she 
was  discussing  the  incidents  and  success  of  a falcon  match  that  they  had 
flown  together  the  day  before.  From  hawking,  they  went  on  to  talk  of 
other  sports,  and  the  lady  G-ruoch  took  occssion  to  acknowledge  the  ob- 
ligations her  skill  owed  to  Grym’s  tuition.  In  alluding  to  archery,  she 
was  reminded  of  her  childish  exploits  with  the  bow,  and  of  the  scene 
which  had  taken  place  while  they  were  practising  on  the  very  rampart 
where  they  now  stood. 

“ I have  hardly  looked  over  there,  since  that  time,”  said  she,  stopping 


130 


THE  THANE'S  DAUGHTER. 


at  the  recess  in  the  battlemented  wall.  u Here’s  the  very  spot ! Do  you 
remember,  Culen?  where  you  climbed  over  for  my  ball;  and  where  you 
turned  so  giddy  at  the  moment,  and  I so  faint  afterwards  ? Give  me 
your  hand  ; I’ll  look  over  now.” 

“ She  stepped  up,  on  to  the  stone  ledge,  as  she  spoke ; Grym  support- 
ing her  on  one  side,  Culen  holding  her  hand,  as  she  bade  him,  on  the 
other.  But  he  was  fain  to  rest  his  elbow  on  the  ridge  of  the  wall,  for 
the  purpose  of  steadying  the  hand  which  held  hers,  that  she  might  not 
perceive  it  tremble.  She  spoke  to  Grym  on  the  singular  power  of  height ; 
of  the  involuntary  submission  of  the  nerves  to  its  influence  ; of  the  phy- 
sical effect  it  has  been  known  to  have  upon  the  stoutest  hearts ; upon 
the  ability  to  resist  this  effect ; cff  the  possibility  of  subduing  it  by  prac* 
tice,  and  by  habituating  the  frame  to  such  trials.  She  spoke  of  endur- 
ance, fortitude,  bravery,  and  of  her  admiration  and  emulation  of  such 
virtues.  Of  strength,  and  of  courage,  and  of  how  she  marvelled  that 
any  one  could  rank  softness  and  sweetness  by  their  side. 

“ Of  what  use  are  these  so-called  virtues  ?”  said  she.  “ Do  they  gain 
anything?  Do  they  serve  to  win  one  high  object?  One  single  end 
worthy  of  attainment  ? Softness,  sweetness,  meekness,  gentleness,  and 
a whole  tribe  of  these  washy  goodnesses,  were  only  styled  virtues  by 
knaves  who  sought  to  take  advantage  of  the  easy  prey  which  such  a 
creed  would  produce  them  in  its  professors.” 

“ Then  you,  my  lady,  would  not  give  your  vote  for  our  new  king 
Duncan,  if  monarchy  went  by  election,”  said  Grym. 

“ Not  I,  in  faith,”  answered  the  lady.  u He  seems  to  be  too  like  his 
predecessor ; who  built  churches,  when  he  should  have  erected  fortifica- 
tions against  the  Danish  inroads  ; gave  his  people  public  prayers  to  say, 
when  he  should  have  filled  their  hungry  mouths  ; sent  forth  his  book  of 
Regia  Majestas  under  pretence  of  wisely  establishing  laws  and  ordi- 
nances for  the  government  of  his  realm,  when  he  might  have  advanced 
their  honor  and  glory  by  conquest  and  worthy  achievement ; and  so  got 
the  name  of  sanctity,  while  he  outraged  all  gofiliness  by  his  avarice  and 
his  selfishness.  Out  upon  such  carpet  virtues,  which  might  show  well 
enough  in  a clerkly  monk,  but  beseem  not  a monarch,  a Scottish  sove- 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


131 


reign  ! And  when,  pray,  is  this  gracious  meekness,  this  new-inflicted 
suavity,  this  milk-and-water  amiability  to  be  crowned  ? 

u This  day  sennight  is  appointed  for  the  convocation  of  nobles  at 
Scone,  my  lady  ;”  replied  Grym.  “ The  coronation  is  to  be  celebrated 
with  great  magnificence,  they  say.” 

“And  how  do  the  people  stand  affected  to  the  new  sovereign?” 
asked  his  mistress.  “ Does  report  say  whether  he  be  popular  ? 
Though  all  new  monarchs  are  popular,  as  a matter  of  course.” 

u Public  opinion  hath  two  voices  just  now  ;”  said  Grym.  “ Though 
most  men  are  loud  in  their  praises  of  the  good  king  Duncan,  there  'are 
not  wanting  those  who  say  his  cousin  Macbeth  would  have  better  filled 
the  throne.  He  is  a right  valiant  gentleman,  and  hath  well-nigh  as 
close  claims  to  the  monarchy  as  the  king  himself,  being  descended  in 
the  like  right  line ; for  Macbeth  is  the  son  of  the  one  daughter  of  our 
late  Malcolm  II,  as  Duncan  is  the  other.” 

“ Then  why  not  have  chosen  the  valiant  knight,  instead  of  the  car- 
pet knight  ? Why  not  Macbeth,  rather  than  Duncan,  if  they  possess 
equal  claims  ?”  asked  Gruoch. 

u Because  Duncan’s  mother  was  the  elder  ^of  the  two  sisters ;”  re- 
plied Grym.  66  Besides,  it  is  whispered  that  the  valour  of  Macbeth  par- 
takes of  somewhat  more  than  hardihood  and  bravery,  and  that  to  what 
his  partizans  call  courage,  his  enemies  might  give  the  harsher  name  of 
cruelty.” 

u The  bold  and  daring  never  want  for  enemies  among  the  weak  and 
timid,  who  are  legion  said  lady  Gruoch ; u and  who  stigmatize  that 
which  they  cannot  hope  to  emulate.” 

While  she  thus  conversed,  she  had  remained  half  sitting  half  kneel- 
ing, in  the  recess,  and  had  been  leaning  upon  the  ridge  of  the  wall,  or 
rather  upon  the  arm  of  the  page  ; who  perceiving  that  she  still  rested 
upon  the  stone  ledge,  and  wishing  to  preserve  her  shoulder  from  its 
hard  contact,  had  placed  his  arm  so  that  she  might  have  its  inter- 
vention. 

She  leaned  upon  it  as  she  would  have  done  upon  a cushion,  or  upon 
his  cloak,  had  he  folded  it  into  one  for  the  purpose ; totally  unconscious 


132 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


that  the  support  she  used  was  human  in  its  sense  of  her  touch,  or  that 
there  was  human  sympathy,  human  affection,  human  passion,  beating  at 
the  heart  close  beside  her. 

Every  pulse,  every  fibre  of  the  arm  upon  which  she  leaned,  thrilled 
with  the  consciousness  of  its  contact  with  the  fair  body  that  it  upheld  ; 
but  it  might  have  been  a mere  mat,  for  aught  she  knew  of  the  sensa- 
tions with  which  it  was  instinct. 

“ If  it  were  not  that  all  the  world  is  sunk  into  apathy,  and  infatuated 
with  seeming  virtues  and  inglorious  love  of  ease,”  contiuued  the  lady, 
“ public  opinion  could  have  had  but  one  voice,  and  that  voice  would 
have  been  for  valiant  Macbeth,  instead  of  the  poor-spirited  Duncan. 
Were  all  men  of  my  mind,  better  befits  a sceptre  be  wielded  with  harsh- 
ness and  glory,  than  with  infructuous  mildness.  These  are  no  times 
for  milk-sop  kings  ! All  men  should  be  soldiers — and  kings,  most  of  all 
men  !” 

“ All  men  should  be  soldiers  ?”  echoed  Culen  half  unconsciously. 

“ Ay,  master  page.  Though  I thank  you  for  your  pains  to  save  my 
shoulder  from  the  hard  edge  of  this  stone  wall ; yet  methinks  I could 
better  like  to  see  your  good  right  arm  strike  a firm  blow  in  Scotland’s 
cause,  than  benumb  itself  into  a cushion  for  a lady’s  back,  though  the 
back  be  mine  own.” 

“ And  have  I your  ladyship’s  leave  to  seek  service  in  the  field?” 
asked  Culen,  his  eyes  sparkling  at  the  thought  of  winning  favor  in  hers. 

If  my  lord,  your  father,  and  yourself,  sanction  my  leaving  the  castle 
of  Moray,  I ask  no  better  fortune  than  the  chance  of  showing  my  lady 
that  the  arm  has  been  nerved  to  achievement,  not  ’numbed  to  inaction, 
by  having  had  the  honor  to  serve  her  for  a cushion.” 

“Well  said,  Culen;”  said  the  lady  Gruoch,  looking  at  him  with  a 
smile  of  approval ; “ I will  myself  obtain  my  father’s  consent  to  your 
quitting  our  inglorious  castle  of  ease  : to  your  exchanging  this  dull, 
stagnant,  slothful  vegetation,  for  a life  of  action,  of  glory,  honor,  and  re- 
nown. Would  my  mother’s  wish  had  been  accomplished  ! Would  I 
were  a man  to  go  forth  with  you  ! You  should  be  my  trusty  squire, 
and  Grym,  my  faithful  man-at-arms  ; — and  so  should  the  knight  of 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


133 


Moray  set  forth  to  the  field  doughtily  equipped  ! Would  I had  indeed 
been  horn  a man  !” 

The  lady  Gruoch  arose  thoughtfully ; and  quitted  the  ramparts, 
that  she  might  seek  her  father,  and  inform  him  of ’Culen’s  suit ; which, 
strengthened  by  her  own  representation,  could  not  fail  of  success,  for 
she  was  never  refused  a single  point  she  desired  to  carry  with  her  fond 
old  parent. 

Culen  watched  the  retiring  form  of  his  beautiful  lady,  and  as  it  re- 
ceded from  his  view,  a shadow  fell  upon  him  ; for  he  remembered  that 
his  desire  to  take  arms,  would  involve  his  banishment  from  her  pre- 
sence, in  which,  till  now,  his  existence  had  been  spent.  But  the  thought 
of  her  bright  smile,  when  he  had  proclaimed  his  desire  to  become  a sol- 
dier, shed  its  light  once  more  upon  his  spirit,  and  he  eagerly  entered 
into  consultation  with  Grym,  how  best  he  might  carry  out  his  desire  of 
winning  advancement  abroad  ; with  which  he  secretly  hoped  some  day  to 
return  home,  that  he  might  lay  its  trophies  at  the  feet  of  his  mistress. 
A lurking,  half-defined  sense  there  was,  that  he  should  thus  raise  him- 
self more  nearly  to  her  own  level ; a successful  soldier  of  fortune 
approaching  a poor  thane’s  daughter  less  hopelessly,  than  a humble 
page, — a retainer  of  her  father’s ; at  any  rate,  he  knew  that  to  be  a 
soldier  at  all,  was  one  step  in  her  regard,  and  that  sufficed  to  inspire 
him  with  hope  and  courage  for  the  present. 

At  first  he  thought  of  seeking  service  under  this  very  Macbeth,  the 
u right  valiant  gentleman”  of  whom  they  had  just  been  speaking ; but 
Grym  told  him,  that  he  thought  he  could  obtain  (through  means  of  one 
of  the  monks  whom  he  had  formerly  known,  when  a lad,  at  the  nearest 
abbey,)  a recommendation  to  Banquo,  the  thane  of  Lochaber,  a worthy 
leader,  and  a renowned  warrior  ; who,  if  he  would  let  Culen  fight  be- 
neath his  banners,  his  training  as  a soldier,  and  his  subsequent  success 
in  arms  was  secured.  And  thus  it  was  concluded  upon.  And  in  a few 
days,  Culen,  no  longer  a page,  left  the  castle  of  Moray,  to  seek  his  for- 
tune as  a soldier.  In  parting  with  him,  the  gentle  old  Kenneth  had 
bestowed  a kindly  benison  on  him  ; Grym  had  growled  him  some  rough 
hut  sensible  advice ; and  the  lady  Gruoch  had  given  him  her  hand  to 


134 


THE  THANErS  DAUGHTER. 


kiss ; which  favor  he  had  knelt  to  receive,  and  which  had  done  much  to 
console  him  for  the  sacrifice  he  made  in  leaving  her.  No  thought  reach- 
ed her  of  the  emotion  that  filled  his  heart,  as  he  knelt  before  her,  and 
vowed  to  win  all  his  honors  in  the  name  of  her  who  had  sent  him  forth, 
and  to  ascribe  to  her  inspiration  all  the  glory  he  trusted  to  achieve. 
She  was  proud  to  behold  the  champion  whom  her  ardour  had  animated, 
but  no  surmise  that  his  own  passion,  no  less  than  her  words,  had  been 
the  animating  cause  of  his  championship,  crossed  her  mind  for  an 
instant. 

For  some  time  after  Culen’s  departure,  the  castle  of  Moray  seemed 
to  sink  into  more  than  the  usual  state  of  dullness  and  stagnation,  of 
which  its  young  mistress  had  complained. 

But  one  day  its  inhabitants  were  thrown  into  a state  of  unwonted 
excitement  and  interest,  by  the  arrival  of  two  strangers  at  the  gates, 
who  entreated  to  speak  with  Kenneth,  thane  of  Moray,  and  his  fair 
daughter,  the  lady  Gruoch. 

One  of  these  strangers  was  a Highlander,  habited  of  course  in  the 
costume  of  his  mountain  home ; the  other,  a young  damsel,  who  was 
closely  shrouded  in  her  tartan  plaid,  which  she  wore  over  her  head  and 
shoulders;  but  who,  from  the  glimpse  the  attendants  caught  of  her 
countenance,  as  they  ushered  the  strangers  into  the  presence  of  their 
lord  and  lady,  they  pronounced  to  be  “ bonnie  beyond  ordinar.” 

But  no  sooner  had  the  lady  Gruoch  looked  upon  the  strangers,  than 
she  recognized  in  the  man,  the  Highlander  she  had  some  years  before 
encountered  in  the  wood.  She  was  abo^t  to  utter  some  exclamation  of 
surprise,  but  she  checked  herself,  and  listened  to  what  he  was  saying  in 
reply  to  a question  her  father  had  asked,  as  to  what  had  brought  them 
to  the  castle. 

The  Highlander  said  that  he  was  travelling  in  search  of  employment 
for  his  only  child,  his  daughter  Boada ; that  she  played  the  harp  passing 
well ; that  the  monks  at  the  neighbouring  abbey  had  told  him  that  she 
would  most  likely  find  entertainment  and  favor  at  the  castle  of  Moray 
with  the  lady  Gruoch,  who  probably  loved  music.  That  he  would  fain 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


135 


have  kept  his  child  at  home  in  his  mountain  hut,  but  that  the  nipping 
of  hard  times  had  left  no  other  alternative  than  that  of  employing  her 
talent,  or  starving  together.  That  he  hoped  that  the  lord  of  Moray  and 
his  fair  daughter  would  give  Doada  leave  to  let  them  hear  her  skill  on 
the  instrument  she  bore  beneath  her  plaid  ; then  signing  to  the  damsel, 
she  threw  back  her  taptan  screen,  and  disclosing  a face  of  great  loveli- 
ness, amid  a profusion  of  golden  hair,  she  began  to  play. 

The  sounds  she  drew  from  the  instrument  were  sweet  and  full ; but 
when  she  accompanied  them  with  her  voice,  pouring  forth  strains  of  pu- 
rity, and  beauty,  and  chanting  songs  full  of  variety,  now  of  pathos,  now 
of  animation,  the  venerable  Kenneth  listened  entranced,  and  sat  rapt 
by  the  delicious  music,  with  which  the  young  damsel’s  harp  and  voice 
filled  the  hall. 

The  lady  Gruoch  listened  too,  but  it  was  musingly  ; and  as  if  her 
thoughts  were  not  entirely  engrossed  by  the  strains  she  heard.  She 
looked  upon  the  beautiful  face  of  the  damsel,  but  now  and  then  her 
glance  was  directed  towards  the  Highlander,  who  leaned  upon  his  staff, 
and  watched  his  daughter  with  eyes  of  affectionate  admiration. 

He  raised  them  with  gratitude  towards  the  old  thane,  when  he  de- 
clared that  he  had  never  heard  anything  like  the  charm  of  the  damsel’s 
harping  and  singing,  and  that  her  music  and  her  beauty  were  those  of 
an  angel. 

While  her  father  was  occupied  with  the  Highlander  and  his  daugh- 
ter, the  lady  Gruoch  had  noted  Grym  enter  the  hall,  who,  with  his  fel- 
lows, had  crept  in,  to  hear  the  stranger’s  music. 

She  beckoned  the  man-at-arms  to  her  side,  and  by  a glance  indicat 
ing  the  Highlander,  she  whispered  : — “ Is  it  not  he  ?” 

u It  is  the  same,  sure  enough,”  replied  Grym.  “ I knew  him  again 
the  moment  I cast  my  eyes  on  him,  and  I wondered,  would  your  ladyship 
do  so  too.  Shall  I bid  him  begone,  my  lady  % Do  you  dislike  his  pres- 
ence V1  added  he. 

“ No,  no  ; I do  not  fear  him  now.  I was  a child  then,  and  dreaded 
every  shadow,  I suppose.  I will  speak  to  him  ; I only  wished  to  be 
sure  that  my  recollection  served  me  aright.” 


136 


THE  THANE^S  DAUGHTER. 


The  lady  Gruoch  moved  to  rejoin  her  father ; who  was  still  intent 
upon  Doada  and  her  music.  He  had  promised  that  she  should  remain 
as  a companion  to  his  daughter  at  the  castle  of  Moray,  and  delight  them 
with  her  marvellous  skill,  saying  that  he  should  he  well  pleased  to  add 
to  his  retainers  a damsel  of  such  merit. 

Her  Highland  father  seemed  gladdened  by  the  promise,  and  by  the 
prospect  of  such  a home  was  secured  for  his  child.  He  only  entreated 
that  she  might  be  permitted  to  come  and  see  her  old  mountain  home 
every  few  months  or  so,  and  rejoice  the  heart  of  her  fond  father  with  the 
sight  of  her  bonny  face,  and  with  the  assurance  that  she  was  well  and 
happy.  “ That  thought  will  keep  me  company,  and  serve  to  make  the 
solitary  hut,  over  beyond  the  hills,  blithe  and  cheery,”  said  the  High- 
lander in  conclusion  ; u and  I can  now  return  there  with  a light  heart, 
though  alone.  Bless  thee,  my  child,  bless  thee,  my  Doada !” 

His  daughter  clung  to  him,  and  he  embraced  her  fervently.  Then 
repeating  his  thanks  to  Kenneth  for  the  protection  he  afforded,  and  bow- 
ing lowly  to  the  thane’s  daughter,  the  Highlander  was  turning  to  depart, 
when  the  lady  G-ruoch  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face,  and  arrested 
his  steps  by  that  look,  as  well  as  by  saying : — 

u The  death  you  foretold,  befell ; and  now  I would  fain  hear  the 
other  weird  you  were  about  to  read  that  morning.  Speak !” 

The  Highlander  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow,  muttering,  as  he 
gazed  at  the  lady  Gruoch  — 

“ I remember  now  ! The  castle  of  Moray  ! Ay,  there  was  death 
there,  then  ! Somewhat  else  there  was,  I dimly  saw,  but  cared  not  to 
read,  to  one  who  had  offered  help.  My  hour  was  then  upon  me.  My 
hour  of  darkness  and  of  light.  Darkness  to  the  soul,  light  to  the  vision. 
When  my  hour  is  upon  me,  I see  more  than  is  given  to  ordinary  human 
ken.” 

“ And  is  not  your  hour  upon  you  now  ? Speak,  old  man  ! Read  my 
weird  now  !”  said  lady  Gruoch. 

The  Highlander  still  gazed  upon  her  ; but  he  shook  his  head,  and 
laid  his  finger  upon  his  lip. 

“ How  came  it  you  were  no  longer  in  the  wood,  when  assistance 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


137 


was  sent  to  you?  Who  are  you?  What  are  you?”  asked  she  hur- 
riedly, 

u I am  a poor  Highlander,  my  lady.  I had  wandered  across  the 
hills  to  these  parts,  on  an  errand  to  the  abbey  near  here,  where  I knew 
I should  find  help.  I saw  your  ladyship,  that  morning, — I now  recol- 
lect,— in  the  wood,  where  I had  set  me  down  to  rest.  In  the  kindly  im- 
pulse of  youth,  you  offered  me  aid,  but  when  you  withdrew,  I knew  not 
that  you  had  gone  to  seek  it,  and  send  it  me.  When  you  left  the 
spot,  I arose  and  resumed  my  path  to  the  abbey,  where  I found  that  I 
sought,  and  returned  forthwith  to  my  mountain  home,  whence  I have 
never  since  strayed,  till  compelled  to  do  so  for  my  child’s  sake.  I could 
have  borne  want  myself,  but  cannot  look  upon  her  starvation.” 

“ She  shall  find  a home  here,”  said  lady  G-ruoch  graciously ; “ the 
pleasure  her  melody  gives  to  my  father,  would  alone  make  her  a wel- 
come inmate  to  his  daughter.  She  shall  dwell  with  us.” 

“ And  you  will  let  her  father’s  eyes  behold  her  occasionally  ?”  asked 
the  Highlander,  after  renewing  his  thanks. 

“ I will  myself  send  her  to  see  you,  safely  escorted  ;”  said  Gruoch. 
“ Meantime,  among  my  maidens,  she  shall  be  nearest  to  my  person,  in 
token  of  the  favor  in  which  her  skill  is  held.” 

She  turned  to  speak  some  words  of  encouragement  to  the  timid 
Doada  ; and  the  Highlander,  blessing  heaven  for  the  auspicious  pros- 
pects of  his  child,  once  more  embraced  her,  bowed  lowly,  and  with- 
drew. 

The  presence  of  the  fair  young  damsel,  and  her  passing  excellence 
in  song,  served  well  to  enliven  the  monotony  of  existence  in  the  castle 
of  Moray  ; and  she  soon  became  a universal  favorite.  Even  with  the 
waiting-women,  who  shared  her  attendance  upon  the  lady  Gruoch,  she 
was  looked  upon  with  no  envy  or  suspicion,  when  it  was  found  that  she 
made  no  attempt  to  supersede  them  in  the  good  graces  of  their  mistress. 
She  was  modest,  retiring,  and  unassuming  even  to  timidity  ; and  de- 
voted herself  almost  wholly  to  entertaining  the  old  thane’s  solitary 
hours  with  her  music.  She  seemed  never  to  weary  of  singing  and  play- 


138 


THE  THANE'S  DAUGHTER. 


ing  to  him.  while  the  venerable  Kenneth  was  equally  unwearied  in  de- 
riving pleasure  from  the  exercise  of  her  gift. 

Gruoch  seemed  well-pleased  that  there  should  be  this  source  of 
gratification  added  to  the  few  that  existed  for  her  quiet  old  father,  and 
treated  the  Highland  girl  with  consideration  for  his  sake  ; else  there 
was  little  intercourse  between  the  lady  of  the  castle  and  her  timid 
handmaiden,  Doada.  To  the  lady  Gruoch  herself,  the  still-life  of  the 
castle  seemed  as  unbroken,  dull,  and  irksome  as  ever. 

However,  soon  there  came  tidings  of  an  event  that  promised  to  sup- 
ply food  for  curiosity  and  interest  to  all  within  the  walls  of  the  castle. 

A horseman  rode  up  to  the  gates,  bringing  a missive  to  the  lord 
of  Moray  from  a former  companion-in-arms,  Sinel,  thane  of  Glamis  ; 
who  informed  his  old  friend,  that  his  son,  Macbeth,  was  abroad  on  a 
martial  expedition,  which  would  take  him  through  that  part  of  the 
country ; that  his  son,  therefore,  craved  leave  to  call  upon  the  venerable 
friend  of  his  father,  and  pay  his  respects  to  the  lord  of  Moray,  and  to 
his  fair  daughter,  the  lady  Gruoch,  of  whose  charms,  fame  had  spread 
report,  even  so  far  as  to  liis  castle  of  Inverness. 

“ Gladly  indeed,  shall  I welcome  the  brave  son  of  my  brave  old  com 
rade.  And  how  far  hence  is  thy  lord,  good  fellow  ?”  said  Kenneth  to 
the  messenger.  “ When  may  we  expect  the  approach  of  valiant  Mac- 
beth ?” 

u My  lord  will  be  here  to-night  replied  the  man.  I outrode  his 
company  but  a few  hours.  He  sent  me  on  to  bring  your  lordship  intel- 
ligence of  his  arrival,  with  his  father’s  letter  ” 

The  news  spread  of  the  expected  approach  of  the  renowned  visitor ; 
and  all  was  anticipation  among  the  inhabitants  of  the  castle.  Every 
one  desired  to  behold  the  illustrious  chieftain,  one  of  the  first  soldiers 
of  the  age,  a military  hero,  a noble  of  blood-royal,  a cousin  of  the  king 
himself.  Hasty  preparations  were  made  to  receive  the  honored  guest 
with  due  hospitality  ; and  all  that  could  be  done  in  the  small  space  of 
time  that  intervened,  was  done,  that  a well-spread  board  and  fitting 
apartments  might  be  prepared  for  the  feasting  and  accommodation  of 
Macbeth  and  his  company. 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


139 


In  those  rude  times,  the  bare  necessaries  of  life — mere  beef  and 
bread,  were  to  be  had  in  abundance,  at  a small  cost,  when  no  season  of 
dearth  occurred  ; and  though  they  were  but  scantly  cooked,  and  roughly 
set  forth,  yet  the  appetites  of  men  inured  to  hardships  of  the  battle- 
field, were  not  likely  to  be  fastidious,  any  more  than  their  limbs  were 
disdainful  of  repose  found  in  ill-furnished  chambers  ; and  thus,  food  and 
a roof,  such  only  as  the  old  thane’s  resources  could  command,  would  be 
no  unwelcome  hospitality  to  a warrior  and  his  company  of  soldiers  after 
a day’s  march. 

Macbeth  arrives.  The  old  thane  receives  him  warmly,  as  a worthy 
representative  of  Sinel,  his  father,  whom  Kenneth  remembers  a prodigy 
of  valour,  when  his  own  less  daring  spirit  yet  generously  bade  him  take 
pride  in  the  deeds  of  his  friend.  The  handsome  warrior  receives  court- 
eously the  commendations  of  his  father’s  friend,  and  adds  farther  greet- 
ings to  those  contained  in  the  letter.  The  lady  Gruoch  joins  her  wel- 
come to  that  of  her  parent ; and  while  the  gracious  words  flow  from  her 
lips,  Macbeth  looks  upon  her  surpassing  beauty,  and  his  heart  owns  he 
has  never  beheld  charms  of  equal  potency  with  those  of  the  thane’s 
daughter.  There  is  something  in  those  azure  eyes  that  compels  and 
enthrals  his  gaze ; their  fascination  is  only  rivalled  by  the  brilliancy  of 
her  complexion,  by  the  lustre  of  her  golden  hair,  and  above  all,  by  the 
magic  of  a commanding  presence,  which  asserts  the  claim  of  such  a com- 
bination of  beauty  to  homage  and  admiration.  Nothing  unwilling,  the 
chieftain  yields  himself  more  and  more  to  the  spell ; he  cannot  withdraw 
his  gaze,  nor  does  he  desire  so  to  do.  He  is  content  to  submit  his  senses 
to  this  new  and  intoxicating  influence  ; content  also  to  find  that  his  gaze 
nowise  seems  to  distress  or  oppress  the  object  of  his  fixed  regard.  She 
is  animated,  self-possessed,  radiant  in  conscious  charms,  performing  the 
duties  of  hostess,  and  presiding  at  the  festal  supper-table  with  ease  and 
grace.  Her  retired  life  has  induced  no  bashful  embarrassment,  no  rustic 
awkwardness ; she  seems  born  a queen,  and  her  seclusion  from  society 
appears  only  to  have  allowed  free  field  for  the  growth  of  her  natural 
refinement  and  elevation  of  demeanour.  She  converses  with  freedom, 
discovering  intelligence  and  decision  of  opinion.  Her  bearing  is  ma- 


140 


THE  THANE  S DAUGHTER. 


jestic,  jet  affable ; lofty,  yet  courteous  ; dignified,  yet  attractive.  Her 
eyes  beam  with  spirit  and  fire,  yet  possess  alluring  beauty  in  their  blue 
depths ; the  rich  carnation  of  the  lips  has  voluptuous  softness  in  its 
pouting  fullness ; and  though  there  lurks  cruelty  and  unrelenting  in 
those  deeply  indented  corners,  yet  dimples,  and  seductive  smiles  pkty 
around,  and  help  to  conceal  the  sinister  inflexibility. 

By  degrees,  he  discovers  yet  a new  charm  amidst  feo  much  beauty. 
He  sees  a something  of  answering  admiration  in  the  manner  in  which  the 
bright  flashes  of  those  azure  eyes  met  his.  The  handsome  person  of  the 
chieftain,  the  ardour  of  his  manner,  the  spirit  of  his  converse,  all  coming 
to  confirm  the  impression  which  his  previous  reputation  had  created  upon 
her  imagination,  leads  her  to  regard  him  with  scarcely  less  admiration 
than  he  does  her ; and  their  mutual  looks  and  discourse  grow  more 
and  more  animated,  and  reveal  more  and  more  how  each  is  struck  and 
enchanted  with  the  other.  The  gentle  remarks  and  kindly  speeches  of 
the  old  thane  fall  almost  totally  disregarded,  while  the  attention  of  the 
young  people  becomes  every  instant  more  exclusively  devoted  to  each 
other. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  music  is  heard.  At  a signal  from  the  lord  of 
Moray,  the  Highland  maiden  has  been  sent  for  into  the  supper-hall,  and 
now  strikes  a few  chords  on  her  harp  by  way  of  a prelude  to  the  song 
he  has  requested. 

“ Doada  will  sing  to  us,  my  lord said  Kenneth  to  his  guest.  “ Her 
music  is  worthy  your  ear,  I can  assure  you.” 

“ What  name  did  you  say  ? How  called  you  the  maiden  ?”  said 
Macbeth,  abruptly  regarding  her. 

The  damsel  blushed,  at  the  sudden  gaze  of  one  so  illustrious,  till  the 
blood  flew  over  neck  and  brow,  and  her  fair  skin  showed  the  suffusion  so 
apparently,  that  a lily  seemed  suddenly  transformed  to  a rose. 

Gruoch’s  face  flashed  scarlet  too. 

Kenneth  repeated  Doada’s  name  to  his  guest ; and  then  bade  her 
play  and  sing  one  of  his  favorite  airs. 

The  damsel  obeyed.  But  though  the  strain  was  plaintively  sweet, 
the  guest  soon  forgot  to  give  it  his  attention,  in  resuming  his  conver- 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


141 


sation  with  the  lady  Gruoch.  They  talked  in  a half-whisper  out  of  de- 
ference to  the  old  thane’s  love  of  music,  hut  they  did  not  share  his  enthu- 
siasm, scarcely  affecting  to  note  the  song  or  the  singer.  Indeed,  it  was 
evident  that  the  fair  hostess  preferred  engrossing  his  attention  herself, 
and  he  appeared  to  pursue  her  inclination  with  no  unwillingness. 

But  when  the  music  came  to  a close,  Kenneth  canvassed  applause 
for  his  favorite  Doada ; and  he  drew  his  guest’s  attention  to  her  again 
by  asking  if  they  did  not  possess  minstrelsy  in  their  poor  castle  of  Moray 
worthy  even  of  royal  hearing. 

u Ay,  by  my  faith replied  Macbeth.  “ And  the  damsel  is  as  fair  as 
she  is  gifted.  I scarce  ever  beheld  hair  so  beautiful.  Golden  locks  such 
as  are  found  in  the  castle  of  Moray,  are  rather  of  heaven  than  of  earth. 
They  are  what  we  fancy  beaming  around  angelic  heads.” 

The  chieftain’s  look  rested  again  upon  the  lady  Gruoch  as  he  spoke  ; 
and  the  scarlet  flush  which  had  once  more  sprung  up  in  her  cheek,  had 
scarcely  faded  away,  when  he  thus  resumed  his  gaze,  and  found  her  in 
heightened  colour  looking  more  bright,  more  beautiful,  than  ever. 

Before  the  company  retired  for  the  night,  Macbeth  bade  his  aged  host 
farewell,  saying  that  he  and  his  retinue  would  in  all  probability  have  left 
the  castle  before  the  old  thane  would  be  stirring.  He  asked  his  leave  to 
depart  thus  abruptly,  as  it  behoved  him  to  be  at  some  miles’  distance  from 
the  castle  of  Moray  before  noon  on  the  following  day.  When  his  host 
expressed  regret  at  parting  with  him  so  soon,  the  chieftain  told  him 
that  he  had  hopes  of  being  able  to  return  in  a day  or  two, — it  might  be 
on  the  very  morrow  of  his  departure ; and  therefore,  if  he  would  let  him 
do  so,  he  should  return  to  the  castle  of  Moray,  and  lengthen  his  visit  to 
his  father’s  friend,  and  improve  his  own  acquaintance  with  the  venerable 
thane  and  his  daughter.  This  prospect  was  eagerly  greeted  both  by 
Kenneth  and  the  lady  Gruoch,  whose  sanction  had  been  included  by  a 
beseeching  glance  in  the  leave  which  Macbeth  had  asked  of  her  father 
for  this  renewal  of  his  visit.  With  mutual  interest  and  liking  on  all 
sides,  they  parted ; and  in  a short  time,  all  within  the  castle  seemed 
slumber  and  repose. 

Yet  within  the  chamber  of  the  lady  Gruoch  there  was  neither.  Her 


142 


THE  THANE*  S DAUGHTER. 


heart  knew  no  peace,  her  frame  no  rest.  Agitated  as  she  had  never 
been  before,  she  paced  her  room  for  many  a long  hour  through  the 
night.  It  seemed  as  if  in  action  alone  she  could  meet  and  contend  with 
the  busy  tide  of  thoughts  and  emotions  that  pressed,  and  heaved,  and 
whelmed  around  her. 

Paramount  above  all,  was  the  image  of  Macbeth.  His  martial  bear- 
ing, his  handsome  person,  his  ardour  of  admiration  for  herself,  all 
claimed  her  woman’s  preference,  and  won  him  her  regard,  her  indivi- 
dual liking.  His  illustrious  birth,  his  military  renown,  his  distinguished 
position,  were  so  many  accumulated  appeals  to  her  ambitious  nature, 
and  fulfilled  the  highest  requisitions  of  her  aspiring  fancy  as  to  what 
that  man  should  be  with  whom  she  would  desire  to  link  her  fate. 

In  every  respect  he  embodied  the  ideal  she  had  conceived  of  a hero 
whom  she  could  love,  whom  she  could  seek  to  win ; and  this  very  hero 
she  dared  to  believe  she  already  saw  won,  at  her  feet,  at  her  disposal, 
to  accept,  or  to  reject. 

Was  it  indeed  so  ? Might  she  believe  that  he  was  as  much  enthralled 
as  his  eyes  had  declared  ? Might  she  believe  that  her  beauty  had  suf- 
ficed to  secure  so  important  a conquest?  Was  he  indeed  so  surely  won, 
so  entirely  hers  ? 

And  then  came  the  thought  that  had  flashed  into  scarlet  witness  upon 
her  cheek,  when  it  had  first  crossed  her  mind,  as  she  beheld  the  glance 
he  gave  towards  Doada,  when  he  heard  her  name.  Again  she  felt  the 
pang  that  darted  athwart  her  heart,  as  she  heard  him  praise  the  High- 
land maiden’s  golden  hair ; and  though  the  praise  was  followed  closely 
by  words  that  directed  the  compliment  as  much  to  herself — yet  the 
mere  thought  of  sharing  his  admiration  with  another  was  not  to  be  en- 
dured, and  she  muttered  with  clenched  teeth  and  hands  : — 

“ She  shall  go.  She  shall  be  here  no  longer  to  meet  his  eye  when  he 
returns.  On  the  morrow  of  the  day  which  is  now  dawning,  he  said 
his  return  might  be.  Before  this  day’s  sun  sets,  she  shall  be  far  on 
her  way  to  her  mountain  home.  No  minstrel  girl, — be  her  name  never 
so  soft,  her  hair  never  so  bright, — shall  come  between  me  and  my  hope  ! 
She  goes!” 


THE  THANE7S  DAUGHTER. 


143 


No  sooner  had  Macbeth  and  his  train  departed,  after  an  early  morn- 
ing meal,  than  the  lady  Gruoch  told  the  Highland  maiden,  Doada,  that 
she  intended  to  allow  her  to  go  and  pay  the  visit  to  her  father  which 
had  been  promised  when  he  left  her  at  the  castle ; and  that  as  well- 
nigh  three  months  had  elapsed  since  his  departure,  they  would  doubt- 
less be  happy  to  meet  and  spend  some  time  together.  She  gave  her 
leave  to  remain  for  a stated  period,  adding  many  gracious  words  as 
to  the  loss  that  the  want  of  her  music  would  prove  to  the  lord  of  Moray 
and  herself,  and  bestowing  upon  her  several  useful  and  handsome  pre- 
sents to  her  father,  together  with  some  gifts  and  tokens  of  approbation 
for  herself. 

The  damsel  blushed  her  gratitude  and  thanks ; but  when  the  lady 
Gruoch  spoke  of  her  immediate  departure,  Doada  ventured  timidly  to 
say  that  she  feared  nightfall  would  set  in,  ere  she  could  reach  the  hut 
among  the  mountains ; as,  when  her  father  and  she  had  come  hither, 
they  had  quitted  their  home  by  day-break,  and  that  it  was  late  now  to 
set  forth. 

“ But  I have  provided  that  you  shall  have  safe  escort said  her 
mistress.  “ Grym  is  to  accompany  you,  maiden ; and  he  will  protect 
you  from  all  harm,  be  it  by  day  or  by  night,  and  place  you  safely 
within  the  arms  of  your  father,  with  whom  I wish  you  all  happiness. 
Farewell !” 

The  lady  Gruoch  paced  the  castle  platform,  vTatching  the  departure 
of  the  Highland  maid  with  the  faithful  man-at-arms,  as  their  retreating 
figures  threaded  the  path  which  led  by  the  shores  of  the  lake,  and 
branched  off  upwards  among  the  hills.  ’As  they  diminished  gradually, 
and  faded  away  in  the  blue  distance.  Gruoch  felt  her  heart  lighten  of 
the  load  which  had  pressed  upon  it,  so  long  as  the  maiden  remained  in 
the  castle.  Now  she  could  give  herself  up  to  unmingled  satisfaction 
in  looking  forward  to  the  return  of  Macbeth.  Now  no  anxiety  need 
she  feel,  lest  his  eye,  his  attention  should  be  withdrawn  an  instant  from 
herself ; and  she  could  indulge  her  fancy  with  picturing  how  exclusively 
she  might  hope  to  enjoy  his  society,  how  best  seek  to  win  his  regard, 


144 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


how  most  happily  secure  his  love,  and  give  him  assurance  of  her  own. 
At  the  thought,  her  heart  swelled  with  a sense  of  triumplh,  and  her  eye 
dilated,  as  she  raised  it  in  proud  exult »*.iun  skywards. 

The  sky  was  suddenly  ov^oast.  It  had  been  a bright  forenoon. 
The  opening  year  had  somewhat  advanced,  and  some  symptoms  of  early 
spring  had  smiled  upon  the  landscape.  But  the  breath  of  winter  still 
prevailed,  and  occasionally  returned  to  resume  its  empire  in  all  tyran- 
nous severity. 

The  lady  G-ruoch  had  lingered  on  the  ramparts  to  enjoy  the  clear 
morning  air,  and  to  indulge  the  sense  of  relief  that  possessed  her  while 
watching  the  departure  of  Doada  ; but  now,  as  she  gazed  into  the  sky, 
she  beheld  the  sullen  veil  that  was  drawn  athwart  the  blue  heavens,  and 
obscured  all  trace  of  that  brightness  which  till  then  had  irradiated  the 
face  of  nature. 

She  was  sensible,  too,  of  the  increasing  bitterness  of  the  cold,  now 
that  the  sun  had  withdrawn  his  rays  ; and  with  a shudder,  partly  of 
chill,  partly  of  misgiving,  she  drew  her  mantle  more  closely  about  her, 
and  prepared  to  quit  the  platform. 

One  more  glance  she  threw  northwards,  in  the  direction  of  the  hills. 
A shrewd  blast  of  wind  swept  from  that  quarter,  and  a moment  or  two 
after,  a few  flakes  of  snow  fluttered  through  the  keen  air  ;• — white, 
feathery,  pure,  subtle,  light,  insidious  snow. 

During  the  long  hours  of  afternoon  and  eventide,  the  lady  G-ruoch 
heard  the  murmurs  of  regret  which  her  old  father  could  not  repress,  for 
the  loss  of  Doada  and  her  sweet  music. 

“ Why  was  she  sent  away  ?”  he  asked  at  first. 

u My  lady  sent  her  to  see  her  father was  the  reply  of  his  at- 
tendants. 

The  old  thane  did  not  answer  ; but  sighed,  and  caressed  the  head  of 
his  favorite  hound  in  silence. 

Wrhen  his  daughter  joined  him,  after  quitting  the  ramparts,  he  re 
peated  his  question  to  her. 

Her  reply  was  nearly  the  same  as  the  one  he  had  received  before. 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


145 


“ I sent  her  to  visit  her  father  in  their  mountain  home  ; you  know 
it  was  so  promised,  when  he  left  her  with  us.” 

“ But  why  should  she  have  gone  to-day  ? Besides,  it  is  foul  weather. 
Is  not  that  snow,  I see  yonder,  through  the  oriel  window  ? She  will 
starve  with  cold,  poor  thing  !” 

“ It  was  fine  when  they  set  forth.  I sent  Grym  with  her.” 

“But  why  send  her  to-day?”  reiterated  the  old  thane,  whom  vexa- 
tion at  the  loss  of  his  wonted  recreation,  and  uneasiress  for  the  safety 
of  the  minstrel  maiden,  rendered  unusually  querulous. 

“ It  was  needful  she  should  go replied  Gruoch  in  the  peremptory 
tone  she  knew  was  always  sufficient  to  decide  a question  with  her 
father.  “It  is  well-nigh  three  months  since  she  has  been  with  us,  and 
her  Highland  father  will  be  wearying  to  see  his  child.” 

Kenneth  submitted  to  the  tone  which  he  knew  so  well,  and  which 
generally  closed  all  points  at  issue  between  them.  He  merely  sighed, 
and  resigned  himself  to  his  accustomed  patting  of  the  dogs’  heads, 
seeming  to  take  refuge  in  their  mute  tokens  of  sympathy  and  attach- 
ment, and  to  find  solace  in  their  looks  of  dumb  affection. 

The  lady  Gruoch  roused  herself  to  attempt  the  entertainment  of  her 
old  parent,  that  she  might  supply  to  him  as  well  as  she  could,  the  loss 
of  the  music  he  so  much  missed  ; and  she  began  to  speak  to  him  of  the 
expected  return  of  their  guest,  to  extol  his  various  accomplishments,  to 
dwell  upon  the  manner  in  which  his  personal  merits  kept  pace  with 
the  reputation  and  renown  he  had  acquired,  and  took  pains  to  dis- 
cover whether  her  father’s  sentiments  of  Macbeth’s  excellence  agreed 
with  her  own. 

She  soon  found,  by  the  interest  he  took  in  the  theme,  how  entirely 
the  chieftain  had  won  her  father’s  regard,  not  only  as  the  son  of  his  old 
companion-in-arms,  but  in  his  own  individual  capacity  ; and  so  well 
pleased  did  he  seem  with  the  subject,  that  while  it  was  being  discussed 
with  animation  by  them  both,  the  old  thane  forgot  to  repeat  his  regrets 
for  the  loss  of  his  favorite  Doada  and  her  music. 

With  so  facile,  so  gentle-spirited  a father,  what  might  not  an  affec- 
tionate daughter  have  done  to  make  his  life  one  of  happiness,  instead 


146 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


of  one  of  monotony,  neglect,  and  almost  solitude, — save  for  the  society 
of  his  dumb  favorites,  the  hounds. 

While  with  her  father,  in  the  hall,  striving  to  amuse  him,  and  at  the 
same  time  indulging  her  own  train  of  thought  by  speaking  upon  the 
theme  which  most  engrossed  it,  the  lady  Grruoch  had  felt  her  animation 
return,  her  exultation  revive,  her  spirits  restored  to  the  proud  and  hope- 
ful tone  which  they  had  assumed  that  morning  as  she  watched  the  depart- 
ure of  Doada. 

But  when  she  bade  her  father  good  night,  on  quitting  the  hall,  and 
retired  to  her  own  apartment,  the  same  sense  of  shuddering  chill  and 
foreboding  crept  over  her,  and  she  made  excuses  to  detain  her  attendant 
women  about  her  person  somewhat  later  than  usual. 

“ Make  up  the  fire  well  upon  the  hearth,  Eoda  ; draw  the  logs'  toge- 
ther, that  the  blaze  may  last said  she.  u Have  you  made  fast  the  door 
which  leads  on  to  the  platform,  Lula  ? The  chamber  seems  unusually 
cold.  Draw  the  hangings  close  before  the  window.  So  ; you  may  leave 
me.  But  let  the  door  of  the  ante-room  remain  only  slightly  closed,  that 
I may  call  you,  if  need  be.” 

When  the  women  had  withdrawn,  the  lady  seated  herself  beside  the 
blaze,  and  strove  to  derive  cheer  from  its  influence.  She  sought  to  re- 
assemble those  bright  thoughts  of  hope,  of  love,  of  ambition,  which  had 
danced  before  her  eyes,  while  dwelling  upon  the  image  of  Macbeth. 
She  tried  to  recall  his  looks,  his  words,  his  ardent  manner,  with  the 
happy  conviction  they  had  engendered,  and  the  joyful  feelings  they  had 
awakened.  But  nothing  of  joy  or  of  happiness  could  she  summon  to 
bear  a part  in  her  musings,  to  shed  a glow  on  her  spirits,  and  lighten 
the  gloom  which  made  her  feel  the  solitude  of  her  chamber  insup- 
portable. 

After  a time,  she  stole  lightly  to  the  door  of  communication  between 
her  own  room  and  that  where  the  attendant  women  slept.  She  pushed 
the  half-closed  door  ; it  yielded,  and  she  could  perceive  that  they  were 
already  at  rest,  and  all  asleep.  She  revoked  her  thought  of  summoning 
one  of  them,  and  drawing  the  door  to  again,  she  remained  a moment  or 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


147 


two,  fixed  in  thought,  in  the  centre  of  her  apartment.  The  tapestry 
that  hung  around  the  walls,  shook  and  heaved  with  the  bleak  gusts  that 
made  their  way  into  the  chamber.  The  hangings  round  the  mullion  win- 
dow, though  they  were  of  heavy  woollen  arras,  waved,  rose,  and  sank  with 
the  night-wind  that  forced  itself  through  the  crevices  and  rough  stone- 
work of  the  deep  embrasure.  By  a sudden  and  seemingly  irresistible 
impulse,  the  lady  Gruoch  moved  hastily  across  the  room,  and  drawing 
aside  the  curtain,  gazed  forth  into  the  night. 

The  snow  had  continued  falling  fast  and  thick  ever  since  she  had 
noted  those  few  first  flakes  ; and  now  it  lay  in  one  wide  sheet  of  white, 
bespreading  castle,  hill,  and  valley.  The  glare  of  its  surface  distinctly 
indicated  the  objects  it  shrouded,  displaying  and  tracing  that  which  it 
covered.  The  ridges  and  ledges  of  the  castle  walls  were  clearly  defined, 
around  and  beneath,  on  all  sides  within  view  of  the  window  ; and  from 
the  foot  of  the  building  stretched  away  the  valley,  with  the  neighboring 
wood  and  lake,  towards  the  hills,  alike  sheeted  with  white.  The  window 
overlooked  the  platform,  which  has  been  so  often  alluded  to,  and  to 
which  there  was  access  from  this  range  of  apartments  through  a small 
door,  opening  from  the  lady  Gruoch’s  own  chamber.  For  awhile  she 
gazed  forth  upon  the  blank  desolation. 

“ If  he  should  not  come  to-morrow,”  muttered  she,  “ it  will  have  been 
needless.  But  he  will  come  ; I know  he  will ; and  whatever  befall,  she 
must  not  be  here.  I would  have  her  away ; why  then  should  I repent 
that  she  is  away  ? The  fact  crowns  my  desire,  and  all  is  as  it  should  be.” 

She  closed  the  curtain,  and  flung  herself  but'  half  undressed  on  the 
bed.  The  red  embers  of  the  dying  fire  cast  a lurid  and  a fitful  light  through 
the  apartment.  The  lady  Gruoch  closed  her  eyes  and  slept ; but  her 
sleep  brought  no  peace,  her  slumber  no  repose,  her  dormant  thoughts  no 
rest.  Her  frame  was  for  a time  extended  on  the  couch,  her  limbs  lay 
stretched  in  inaction,  but  the  mind  was  still  tossing  to  and  fro  in  a sea  of 
agitation.  The  soul  was  wakefully  fighting,  while  the  body  lay  drowsed 
and  prostrate  ; but  presently  the  struggle  of  the  soul  communicated  itself 
to  the  body,  and  compelled  that  to  act  in  concert  with  the  strong  com 
tention  maintained  within.  The  waking  soul  roused  the  sleeping  body, 


148 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


and  constrained  it,  still  sleeping  as  it  was,  to  perform  the  deeds  of  wak- 
ing. The  volition  of  the  spirit  made  the  passive  body  involuntarily 
fulfil  its  promptings,  and  move  mechanically  obedient  to  interior  impulse. 
Consciousness  and  unconsciousness  had  equal  possession  of  her  frame, 
and  dictated  alike  its  motion.  Asleep  in  body,  yet  awake  in  spirit,  the 
form  of  the  lady  Gruoch  arose  from  the  bed,  and,  traversing  the  apart- 
ment, halted  near  the  door,  which  led  from  her  room  on  to  the  castle 
platform.  Some  idea  of  recalling  Doada,  of  concealing  her  within  the 
castle  from  the  sight  of  Macbeth,  instead  of  sending  her  forth  into  the 
snow-storm,  had  taken  possession  of  her  soul,  and  in  the  strength  of  its 
impress,  this  thought  now  led  her  into  the  open  air  in  the  dead  of  the 
night,  with  her  thinly-clad  slumbering  body,  and  her  fighting  spirit. 
The  door  was  unbarred,  unclosed,  and  the  lady  stepped  forth. 

“You  are  cold,  Doada — come  back.  You  shall  not  perish;”  she 
muttered.  “ Abide  in  this  retired  chamber — it  is  but  for  awhile — till 
he  is  gone.  Do  as  I bid  you,  maiden,  I will  have  it  so  ! How  cold  you 
are  ! Come  in,  I tell  you  ! The  snow  will  starve  you — and  my  father 
will  be  grieved  ! Cold — white — dead  !” 

The  lady  Gruoch  had  crossed  the  platform  ; and  as  she  concluded 
her  muttered  words,  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  stone  wall  that  skirted' the 
rampart.  The  sharp  cold  of  its  touch  had  startled  her  senses  into  con- 
sciousness, and  she  awoke  to  find  herself  wandering  alone  in  the  incle- 
ment air  at  dead  of  night,  half  clothed,  half  asleep,  and  shivering  with 
cold  and  awe.  She  shrank  back  to  her  chamber,  hastily  refastened  the 
door,  cowered  beneath  the  bed-clothes,  and  summoned  the  attendants  to 
renew  the  fire,  and  watch  beside  her  couch  till  morning. 

With  the  light  of  day  her  courage  returned.  Her  spirits  revived, 
and  she  could  teach  herself  to  look  back  upon  the  tumult  of  the  past 
night  unmoved.  She  persuaded  herself  that  Doada  was  safe,  and  that 
she  had  permitted  an  exaggerated  idea  to  alarm  her,  that  any  danger 
could  exist  for  the  maiden  while  under  the  protection  of  Grym.  She 
remembered  that  Macbeth  was  possibly  to  return  that  day  to  the  castle, 
and  that  it  behoved  her  to  meet  him  with  smiles  and  a serene  brow,  un- 


THE  THANE’S  DATTGHTEE. 


149 


ruffled  by  traces  of  the  emotions  of  the  past  night.  She  struggled  to 
recover  her  tranquillity,  to  smooth  her  haggard  looks,  and  to  resume  the 
charm  and  majesty  of  her  native  mien. 

The  thought  of  his  near  approach,  and  of  the  probable  result  of  his 
return,  helped  to  wreathe  her  lip  with  smiles,  give  a glow  to  her  cheek, 
and  light  her  eyes  with  a glance  of  fire  ; and  by  the  hour  when  the’chief 
and  his  retinue  reached  the  castle  of  Moray,  its  mistress  shone  forth  with 
all  her  accustomed  radiance  of  beauty. 

After  an  interchange  of  courtesy  with  the  old  thane,  her  father, 
Macbeth  soon  contrived  to  lead  the  lady  Gruoch  apart,  and  renew  the 
animated  strain  of  conversation  in  which  they  had  Doth  found  so  much 
pleasure  the  first  evening  they  had  met. 

They  leaned,  talking  together,  in  the  recess  of  the  oriel  window  of 
the  hall ; and  while  the  old  thane  noted  them  as  they  stood  a little  apart 
thus,  he  thought  how  handsome  they  both  looked,  how  happy  they  seemed, 
how  accordant  their  beauty  and  bearing,  and  how  well  fitted  for  each 
other  they  were  ; and  then  the  thought  ensued,  of  how  goodly-assorted 
a couple  his  daughter  and  the  son  of  his  friend  would  make  in  marriage. 

As  the  father  mused  thus,  Macbeth  allowed  the  ardour  of  his  man- 
ner to  assume  less  and  less  reserve,  and  the  warmth  of  his  admiration  to 
be  less  and  less  concealed ; and  at  length  his  words  and  looks  were  so 
unequivocal,  that  the  lady  Gruoch  could  entertain  no  doubt  of  the  con- 
quest she  had  gained. 

Something  he  had  said  in  allusion  to  the  lustre  of  her  charms,  and  in 
avowal  of  the  power  they  had  exercised  over  his  hitherto  untouched 
heart,  entreating  her  permission  to  speak  of  his  passion  to  her  father ; to 
which  she  had  gaily  replied  that  she  would  hear  him  plead  farther  herself, 
before  she  sanctioned  his  carrying  his  suit  to  any  other  umpire  of  his 
fate. 

” But  I own  no  eloquence  in  speech,  lady,”  said  he.  u I am  a rough 
soldier ; my  arguments  have  hitherto  been  deeds  not  words,  and  I have 
learned  no  arts  of  peace  in  the  battle-field.  I can  wield  a claymore,  but 
have  no  skill  in  poesy  or  song,  or  in  aught  of  such  things  that  may  help 
a knight  to  win  fair  lady.  The  belief  that  I behold  that  in  you  which 


150 


THE  THANErS  DAUGHTER. 


disdains  such  silken  accomplishments,  it  is,  which  gives  me  courage  to 
sue  in  behalf  of  the  rough  soldier  ; at  the  same  time  that  it  ought  per- 
haps to  bid  me  despair  of  ever  calling  such  superiority  in  mind  and 
oeauty  mine  own.” 

“ I care  little  for  poesy  and  song,  it  is  true said  Gruoch. 

“ By  the  way,  where  is  the  minstrel  maiden,  that  sang  to  us  the  other 
evening,  I do  not  see  her  to-day?” 

“ Bo  you  desire  to  see  her  ?”  asked  the  lady  abruptly,  with  a sudden 
flash  of  her  deep  blue  eyes. 

“Not  I;”  replied  the  chieftain  ; “I  only  felt  an  interest  in  her  for 
the  sake  of  my  mother,  whose  name  she  bears ; and  for  the  sake  of  one,” 
he  added,  lowering  his  voice  to  a tone  of  passionate  admiration,  a whose 
golden  hair  is  even  brighter  than  hers,  which  attracted  my  regard  for  an 
instant  as  I compared  it  in  thought,  though  unjustly,  as  I now  find  by 
closer  inspection,  to  these  lustrous  tresses  that  transcend  all  others.” 

As  the  handsome  chieftain  hung  over  her,  raising  one  of  the  golden 
curls  gallantly  to  his  lips  as  he  spoke,  and  thus,  by  a few  simple  words, 
explained  the  origin  of  the  passing  interest  he  had  evinced  for  the  High- 
land maid,  the  lady  Gruoch  looked  forth  from  the  oriel  window  amid  the 
snow-tracks  and  frozen  distance  of  the  drear  wintry  landscape,  and  a 
shadow  of  regret  clouded  her  brow,  for  having  so  hastily  sent  the  dam- 
sel forth.  But  the  cloud  was  transient ; the  shade  passed  from  her 
thought,  as  she  turned  beaming  and  gracious  to  the  suitor  at  her  side. 

And  soon,  no  doubt  of  mutual  preference  remained  to  mar  the  joy 
of  either  Macbeth  or  the  lady  Gruoch.  She  found  that  the  chieftain 
thought  but  of  her ; he  discovered  that  he  had  succeeded  in  winning  her 
regard.  Their  attachment  was  avowed  to  her  father ; and  it  was  agreed 
that  Macbeth  should  but  return  to  Inverness  to  impart  to  his  own  father 
his  successful  suit ; and  that  as  soon  as  preparation  could  be  made  to 
receive  his  bride,  he  should  return  to  the  castle  of  Moray  to  claim  her, 
and  to  celebrate  his  nuptials,  that  he  might  carry  her  to  her  new  home. 

The  lady  Gruoch  had  scarcely  bidden  farewell  to  her  new-trothed 
lord,  when  Grym  returned.  He  entered  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  as 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


151 


she  was  retiring  from  it,  on  her  way  to  her  own  apartment.  There  was 
that  in  the  face  of  the  man-at-arms,  beside  its  usual  ugliness, — more 
ghastly  than  its  wonted  look,  that  arrested  her  steps,  and  made  her 
pause  to  hear  what  he  might  have  to  say. 

“ I performed  your  bidding,  Madam;”  said  he.  “ I took  her  to  her 
home.” 

“Well  done,  good  Grym ; faithful  to  thy  trust;”  replied  his  lady. 
“ You  placed  the  maid  within  her  father’s  arms.  }Tis  well.” 

“ I did.  Madam  ; but ” 

The  man-at-arms  faltered ; there  was  that  in  his  eye  and  voice  that 
belied  his  rough  exterior. 

The  lady  cast  a searching  look  upon  his  face.  She  read  a terrible 
meaning  there;  but  she  said  with  her  firm  steady  voice  : — “You  did? 
’Tis  enough  ; thanks,  good  Grym.”  Then  staying  to  hear  no  more,  she 
resumed  her  way  to  her  own  apartments. 

But  not  so  summary  was  the  inquiry  of  the  old  thane  with  regard  to 
the  disappearance  of  his  favorite  Doada.  He  questioned  Grym  closely 
concerning  the  incidents  of  their  journey  ; and  from  the  sparing  curt 
speech  of  the  man-at-arms  he  at  length  gathered  the  particulars  of  her  fate. 

On  the  afternoon  of  their  departure  from  the  castle  of  Moray,  they 
had  not  reached  far  among  the  uplands  that  stretched  away  from  the 
shores  of  the  lake,  when  they  were  overtaken  with  the  snow,  which  at 
first  fell  lightly  and  scantily,  then  thicker  and  faster,  and  at  length  pro- 
fusely and  incessantly. 

At  first,  Grym  would  have  persuaded  the  maiden  to  return,  and 
defer  her  journey  to  the  hills  until  a fairer  season.  But  by  this  time  the 
thought  of  shortly  beholding  her  father,  joined  to  that  of  having  to  en- 
counter the  stern  cold  looks  of  the  lady  Gruoch,  should  she  return 
when  bidden  forth  by  her,  gained  sufficient  empire  over  the  Highland 
girl  to  urge  her  to  proceed.  Soon,  it  became  as  difficult  to  make  their 
way  back,  as  to  continue  on  ; and  Doada,  her  spirits  rising  with  the  pros- 
pect of  approaching  each  step  they  took,  more  nearly  to  her  home, 
cheerily  toiled  upwards  and  onwards  with  the  elastic  happy  step  of  hope, 
and  chatted  with  the  light  heart  of  youth  and  anticipation. 


152 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


“ It  will  be  such  a gay  surprise  for  my  dear  father  !”  said  she.  “ He 
little  thinks  every  moment  is  bringing  his  child  closer  to  his  arms 
And  he  loves  me  so  dearly,  good  G-rym.  You  don’t  know  what  a kind 
father  he  is.  He  never  would  have  parted  with  his  Doada,  but  that  he 
could  not  bear  to  see  Hunger  and  Death  each  day  approach  nearer  and 
more  near  to  our  threshold  to  snatch  his  child  from  him.  And  now  she 
returns,  to  carry  him  joy,  and  comfort,  and  wealth.  See,  good  Grym, 
what  my  lady  has  given  me  for  him.  My  lady  may  seem  cold  and 
grand,  and  awful  to  look  at,  or  to  speak  to ; — nay,  when  I am  in  her 
presence,  I scarce  like  to  raise  my  eyes  to  hers,  and  tremble  like  a leaf, 
simpleton  that  I am,  when  I have  to  carry  any  message  to  her, — vet  she 
is  as  kind  as  she  is  handsome.  She  must  be,  to  think  of  sending  these 
to  my  father.” 

“ You  are  sure  you  know  your  way?”  said  Grym  abruptly. 

“ Of  course  I do.  Straight  on  ; we  can’t  miss  it.  This  is  the  path 
we  are  in, — skirting  these  rocks,”  answered  the  maiden. 

“Yes,  but  the  snow  sets  deeper  and  deeper;  the  track  of  the  path 
shows  less  and  less,”  said  Grym. 

“ And  it  is  getting  dark  ;”  said  Doada,  looking  up ; “ the  night  is 
coming  on.  But  I know  my  way — oh  yes,  I know  my  way  surely. 
There  is  the  stunted  thorn  ; farther  on  we  come  to  the  black  cavern  ; 
then  the  deep  pool  in  the  hollow ; and  after  that  the  clump  of  firs  on 
the  hill-side — beyond  that,  the  eagle’s  glen  ; and  then  it  is  but  a little 
way  up  farther  to  our  hut  by  the  burn-side.  The  bonny  burn  springs 
up  close  at  hand,  near  to  our  door — and  it’s  merry  to  watch  its  leap,  and 
dance,  and  frolic,  and  bound  away  over  rock  and  fell,  in  a bright  spring 
day.  If  it’s  not  frozen  over  by  to-morrow  morn,  you  shall  have  a cup 
of  its  sparkling  waters,  Grym,  and  maybe  something  stronger,  to  tem- 
per it  into  warmth  and  comfort  after  this  cold  night.  How  bitter  it  is  ! 
and  how  keen  the  wind  whistles!  Sharp  from  the  North!  But  no 
matter,  Northward  lies  home — and  home  warms  the  heart  full  well !” 

Long  after  this,  the  girl  strove  to  maintain  her  cheery  tone,  and  her 
hopeful  step.  But  the  darkness  crept  on  and  on  ; the  snow  fell  thicker 
and  thicker ; the  night-wind  blew,  piercing  them  through  and  through ; 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


153 


the  path  was  obscured,  and  the  white  glare  on  all  around  served  but  ill 
to  trace  even  well-known  objects  to  eyes  that  began  to  droop  and  drowze 
beneath  the  influence  of  the  intense  cold  and  growing  fatigue. 

Yet  still  she  struggled  onwards,  now  wavering  and  uncertain  in  her 
course,  now  more  assured,  when  some  familiar  object  was  recognized  as 
marking  the  path  they  ought  to  take  ; now  she  would  lag  dispirited  and 
doubtful,  now  again  endeavour  to  resume  her  hopeful  tone  and  her  as- 
sured step.  Several  times  they  wandeied  from  the  track,  which  with 
much  difficulty  was  regained,  and  still  the  night  hours  crept  on,  and 
still  the  girl  staggered  blindly  forward-s.  By  this  time,  Grym  had  as- 
sumed the  task  of  guide,  trying  to  trace  the  objects  Doada  had  named 
as  marking  the  course  they  were  to  pursue  ; and  by  this  time,  it  was  he 
who  maintained  the  cheerful  tone  of  comforter,  endeavouring  to  inspirit 
and  encourage  the  weary  girl.  But  her  limbs  dragged  more  and  more 
heavily  along ; her  slight  frame  clung  even  more  helplessly  against  the 
side  of  the  huge  man-at-arms ; her  head  flagged,  as  a flower  snapped  in 
its  stem  ; and  her  senses  yielded  to  the  lethargy  that  pressed  its  sullen 
weight  upon  body  and  spirit  alike.  u Let  me  rest,  good  Grym  ; let  me 
rest  here  for  a few  minutes  ;”  she  murmured,  “ I shall  be  able  to  go  on 
better  afterwards,  if  you  let  me  rest  a little.” 

Grym  attempted  to  rouse  her,  telling  her  that  the  dawn  would  soon 
break, — that  they  could  not  now  be  far  from  the  hut, — that  if  she  could 
but  hold  on  for  a short  time  yet,  they  would  soon  reach  home  where  she 
might  fu^ly  rest.  But  the  imperative  summons  was  not  to  be  with- 
stood : — “ I cannot,  good  Grym  ; let  me  rest  here, — I shall  rise  refreshed, 
— and  then  we  will  go  to  my  father.”  And  with  this,  the  maiden  sank 
down,  totally  overpowered,  in  a stupor  of  frozen  slumber. 

Her  rough-seeming  companion  screened  her  as  well  as  he  could,  in 
the  craggy  nook  where  she  had  dropped  ; drawing  her  tartan  plaid 
closely  round  her  and  adding  his  own,  which  he  took  off  for  the  pur- 
pose, to  shelter  her  as  well  as  might  be  from  the  falling  snow,  and 
cutting  wind.  Then,  carefully  marking  the  spot,  he  left  her  thus 
couched,  while  he  endeavoured  to  find  his  way  on  to  the  hut,  to  fetch 
help. 


154 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


But  in  darkness,  and  ignorance  of  the  track,  he  only  wandered 
farther  and  farther  from  the  right  direction  ; and  he  was  compelled  to 
return  to  the  nook  in  the  glen,  after  a fruitless  search,  determining  to 
await  here  the  dawn  of  day,  which  he  thought  could  not  be  far  distant. 

With  the  first  glimmer  of  light,  he  renewed  his  attempt  to  discover 
their  way  ; and  found  that  they  were,  in  fact,  within  sight, — not  hearing 
(for  the  frost  had  arrested  its  flow,  and  smitten  it  into  silence)  of  the 
burn  or  brook  which  Doada  had  described  as  having  its  source  near  to 
the  mountain  hut  of  her  father.  Cheered  by  this  token  that  they  were 
closer  to  their  journey’s  end  than  he  had  dared  to  hope,  Grym  endea- 
voured gently  to  arouse  the  Highland  maiden.  Bat  no  efforts  of  his 
could  awaken  her.  The  man-at-arms  was  startled,  as  he  raised  the 
tartan  screen  from  the  white  still  face,  and  the  stricken  form  that  lay 
there,  but  he  would  not  allow  to  himself  that  what  he  looked  upon  was 
death.  He  would  not  listen  for  her  breathing,  but  held  his  head  erect, 
apart,  as  if  determined  not  to  ascertain  what  he  would  not  allow  himself 
to  doubt.  “ The  father  will  know  best  what  will  restore  the  lassie,” 
he  muttered,  as  he  raised  her  tenderly  in  his  arms ; u let  me  but  find 
him.” 

And  he  strode  on  with  his  burthen,  which  was  scarcely  such  to  his 
brawny  strength,  until  he  came  to  the  door  of  the  shieling,  or  hut. 

The  door  was  barely  fastened  ; with  one  stroke  of  his  foot,  the  man- 
at-arms  made  it  yield,  and  he  entered,  bearing  Doada  into  her  native 
mountain  home.  - 

On  the  hearth  stood  the  Highlander.  Grym  went  up  to  him,  and 
placed  the  daughter  within  the  father’s  arms.  In  a few  words  the  events 
of  the  past  day  and  night  were  explained ; the  departure  from  the  castle  ; 
the  snow-storm  ; the  sleep  ; the  home-return  ; the  hope  that  a father’s 
embrace  would  restore  warmth  and  life. 

But  one  glance  of  the  father’s  eye  sufficed.  It  revealed  to  him  the 
fatal  truth.  It  told  him  that  his  child,  whom  he  had  left  but  a few  short 
months  since  blooming,  well,  and  happy,  was  returned  to  him,  inanimate, 
cold,  dead  ! He  received  within  his  arms,  in  lieu  of  his  living  daughter, 
a frozen  corse ! 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


155 


The  lady  Gruoch  reached  her  own  chamber.  Thence,  she  stepped 
out  upon  the  platform ; the  freedom  of  the  open  air  braced  and  con- 
firmed her  mood  of  thought.  She  paced  to  and  fro  for  awhile,  and  reso- 
lutely shunned  the  remembrance  of  Grym’s  face,  which  seemed  to  sug- 
gest more  than  she  cared  to  know.  And  thus  she  mused. 

“ The  girl  is  gone.  She  is  out  of  my  path.  If  she  cross  it  no  more 
— the  better.  Ten  such  minions  removed  whence  they  might  breed 
mischief — what  matters  it  how  they  be  removed?  I &an  not  one  to  abide 
the  ire  of  an  irritated  imagination.  It  is  but  brainsickness  to  consider 
too  deeply  of  things  that  are  past  and  done  ; a disease  of  thought  to 
ponder  on  the  means  which  have  already  helped  us  to  our  wish.  I have 
mine  in  her  removal ; the  sum  of  her  image  shall  henceforth  be  that 
to  me.” 

As  the  lady  Gruoch  turned  in  her  walk,  at  one  end  of  the  platform, 
she  beheld  at  a few  paces  from  her,  the  Highlander,  standing  imme- 
diately in  her  path. 

“ How  earnest  thou  hither,  good  man  ?”  she  asked  ; surprised  to  see 
one  so  suddenly  and  so  near,  whom  she  had  thought  at  a distance. 
u How  found  you  this  part  of  the  castle  ? What  has  brought  you  to 
me  ?” 

“ I am  come  to  read  thee  thy  weird  at  last !”  said  the  Highlander. 
u When  first  I looked  upon  thee,  I beheld  a crown  spanning  the  fair 
young  brow — but  I beheld  it  through  a red  mist,  and  would  not  reveal 
the  fearful  secret  to  one  who  proffered  aid  ” 

“ A crown  ? — a crown,  said’st  thou  ?”  exclaimed  the  lady. 

“ Ay,  a crown,  a royal  crown — the  golden  badge  of  sovereignty  ! I 
would  not  then  foretell  so  dread,  so  fatal  a vision.  But  thou  hast  sent 
me  my  child  through  the  snow-storm,  and  I read  thee  thy  weird  through 
the  red  mist.  A crown  is  thy  weird  ; the  red  mist  is  blood  !” 

“ What  matters,  so  that  the  weird  be  a crown  !”  cried  the  lady 
Gruoch.  “ Methinks  to  gain  that,  I could  stem  torrents  of  blood ; 
scarcely  heeding  though  some  of  my  own  were  shed  to  mingle  with  the 
stream.” 

“ Thine  own  ?”  echoed  the  Highlander,  with  a scoffing  laugh  ; “ That 
were  too  gentle  a sentence.” 


156 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


u What  mean’st  thou  % Speak  farther  !”  The  lady  advanced,  as  she 
spoke,  towards  the  spot  where  the  figure  of  the  Highlander  stood  with 
folded  arms  and  derisive  lips.  “ Speak,  man  !”  she  continued.  61  Tell 
me  thy  knowledge.  I will  have  it  !5? 

In  her  eagerness,  she  still  advanced,  and  would  have  laid  her  hand 
upon  the  folded  arms.  She  touched  no  substance.  She  saw  the  mock- 
ing features,  and  beheld  distinctly  the  chequered  colors  of  the  tartan 
plaid  in  which  his  figure  was  enveloped, — but  she  felt  nothing.  No  tan- 
gible matter  met  her  grasp,  and  with  horror  and  awe  unspeakable  she 
recoiled  ; — then  plunging  desperately  forward,  she  passed  through  the 
vivid  shadow  as  if  it  had  been  a rainbow ! 

An  instant — and  the  whole  thing  had  vanished ; and  when,  some 
time  after,  her  women  sought  their  mistress,  they  found  her  extended  on 
the  ground,  senseless. 

Messengers  bring  tidings  of  Macbeth.  They  bear  a letter  to  the 
lady  Gruoch,  in  which  the  chieftain  tells  her  that  the  country  is  infested 
with  a scum  of  Gallowglasses,  disaffected  rebels,  and  turbulent  maraud- 
ing Kernes ; against  whom  he  is  employed,  seeking  to  quell  and  exter- 
minate them  from  the  land.  That  this  duty  calls  him  to  the  field,  and 
detains  him  from  the  hope  with  which  he  left  her,  of  preparing  ail  things 
at  the  castle  of  Inverness  for  the  reception  of  his  bride.  He  adds,  that 
this  active  service  in  which  he  is  engaged,  not  only  interferes  thus  with 
the  fulfilment  of  his  own  wishes,  but  it  likewise  employs  all  his  available 
men,  so  that  he  fears  he  shall  scarce  be  able  to  send  messengers  to  her 
so  frequently  as  he  desires  ; but  he  concludes  by  beseeching  her  to  be- 
lieve him,  through  all  lets  to  their  continued  intercourse,  to  be  her  true 
and  faithful  knight,  devoted  to  her  beauty  solely,  in  the  hope  of  speedily 
calling  it  his  own  for  ever. 

Upon  this  letter,  and  the  attachment  it  breathes,  the  lady  Gruoch 
lives  for  awhile.  But  soon  her  thirst  for  farther  tidings  of  her  betrothed 
lord  rises  to  a feverish  longing,  which  must  be  satisfied. 

She  resolves  to  send  Grym  to  the  camp  of  Macbeth ; though  she 
knows  the  remainder  of  the  men-at-arms  who  will  then  be  left  at  the 


THE  THANErS  DAUGHTER. 


157 


castle  of  Moray  will  afford  but  insufficient  protection  for  her  old  father 
and  herself,  in  case  of  any  hostile  attempt  to  invade  their  quiet  from 
the  insurgent  marauders.  For  the  faithful  and  experienced  soldier, 
Grym,  is  a host  in  himself ; and  now,  for  the  first  time  since  his  depar- 
ture, Culen  is  thought  of  with  esteem  and  regret.  But  the  anxiety  to 
obtain  news  of  Macbeth  is  paramount,  and  the  lady  G-ruoch  dispatches 
Grym. 

During  his  absence,  the  inhabitants  of  the  castle  hear  frequent  ru- 
mours of  parties  of  wandering  Kernes,  who  demolish  crops,  spoil  hus- 
bandry, oppress  the  neighbouring  poor,  and  commit  other  depredations 
in  the  vicinity  ; but  no  actual  hostility  threatens  the  thane  of  Moray’s 
own  possessions. 

Grym  has  been  gone  long  enough  to  warrant  expectation  of  Ais 
return.  The  lady  Gruoch  begins  to  look  impatiently  for  it,  and  to  tax 
him,  in  thought,  with  strange  lack  of  zeal  in  her  service,  when  suddenly 
there  is  an  unwonted  stir  in  the  court-yard  of  the  castle.  The  port- 
cullis has  been  raised  ; an  armed  horseman  has  been  admitted  across 
the  drawbridge,  who  leads  his  steed  by  the  bridle  through  the  gates  ; 
the  charger  bears  a wounded  man  upon  his  back,  who  is  supported  in 
the  saddle  by  the  armed  knight  that  walks  by  his  side,  leading  the 
horse. 

In  the  armed  knight,  who  wears  his  visor  raised,  the  men-at-arms  of 
the  castle  of  Moray  have  recognized  their  former  companion,  Culen  ; in 
the  wounded  man,  they  have  beheld  their  fellow-retainer,  Grym. 

The  lifting  their  comrade  from  the  horse’s  back,  the  placing  him 
upon  a heap  of  plaids  hastily  spread  upon  the  ground  for  his  reception, 
the  murmured  expressions  of  wonder,  sympathy,  and  inquiry  from  the 
other  men-at-arms,  all  crowding  around  Grym,  and  endeavouring  to  assist 
and  relieve  him,  caused  the  unusual  stir  in  the  court-yard  which  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  lady  Gruoch,  as  she  sat  in  the  hall,  and  which 
brought  her  forth  to  see  who  the  wounded  man  might  be. 

“ It’s  Grym,  our  Grym,  madam,”  whispered  the  men,  as  they  made 
way  for  their  lady  to  come  near.  u He  is  wounded  ; and  it  seems  mor 
tally.  For  he  stirs  not ; and  speaks  not.” 


158 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


u Grym  ! my  faithful  Grym !”  exclaimed  the  lady  Gruoch,  as  she 
approached,  and  bent  towards  the  bleeding  soldier.  “ What,  rouse  thee, 
man  ; art  thou  indeed  so  sorely  hurt  ?”  The  dying  man  raised  his  eyes 
by  an  effort.  “ That’s  well ; cheerly,  good  Grym.  And  what  news,  my 
trusty  Grym?  Hast  thou  the  packet?  Has  thou  no  letter  for  me?” 
she  added. 

There  was  a visible  struggle.  The  faithful  man-abarms  strove  to 
speak ; the  blood  gushed  from  his  lips  instead  of  words  ; and  he  could 
only  faintly  attempt  to  lift  his  hand  towards  the  breast  of  his  buff  doub- 
let. The  lady  at  a glance  understood  the  movement,  and  eagerly  with- 
drew the  desired  packet  from  the  place  he  had  indicated,  to  bring 
which  to  her  in  safety  he  had  forfeited  his  life-blood.  Some  of  this 
same  life-blood  soiled  the  fair  hands  that  were  searching  the  bosom  of 
the  dying  servitor  for  that  which  he  had  died  to  preserve  for  her. 

“ Faithful  unto  death  !”  she  cried,  as  she  transferred  the  precious 
packet  from  his  bosom  to  her  own.  u But  must  thou  indeed  die,  my 
faithful  Grym  ? Can  no  leech  save  thee  ? Half  my  possessions  I would 
gladly  give  to  him  who  might  restore  thee  to  life,  to  thy  mistress.  Who 
may  I ever  hope  to  attach  to  me,  as  thou  hast  been  devoted  to  me  ? De- 
voted unto  death ; my  faithful  Grym  !” 

The  dying  man’s  eyes  looked  fondly  at  her  as  she  uttered  these  ex- 
pressions of  regret  at  his  loss.  To  him  they  conveyed  no  particle  of 
the  self-consideration  that  was  betrayed  in  every  word.  To  his  partial 
affection  they  were  all  he  could  have  desired  in  requital  of  the  life  de- 
voted to  her  service, — of  the  death  incurred  in  her  behalf.  His  face 
wore  the  satisfied  look  that  an  indulgent  parent  might  have  cast  upon  a 
favorite  child,  in  whom  he  can  perceive  no  fault,  and  who  satisfies  all 
that  his  yearning  love  could  wish. 

He  expired  with  the  belief  that  his  mistress  held  him  as  dearly- 
valued,  as  sufficed  to  reward  him  to  the  utmost  for  all  he  had  done, — - 
and  he  died  contented,  proud,  happy  in  the  conviction  of  her  regard. 

The  lady  Gruoch  looked  upon  the  uncouth  visage  of  the  dead  man 
with  sincere  (because  selfish)  regret.  Then  she  withdrew  from  his  side, 
that  the  attendants  might  remove  the  body  of  their  comrade  ; and  she 


the  thane’s  daughter.  159 

heaved  one  deep  sigh,  while  a voice  near  her  said  : — “ I could  find  it  in 
my  heart  to  envy  Grym,  to  be  s®  mourned  !” 

The  lady  turned  to  look  upon  him  who  spoke  ; and  she  then  per- 
ceived, for  the  first  time,  that  the  armed  figure  beside  her  was  Culen. 
But  Culen  so  changed  in  bulk  and  stature — so  altered  in  look  and 
bearing ; no  wonder  she  failed  to  recognize  him,  while  she  scarcely  noted 
his  presence,  during  the  absorbing  scene  that  had  just  occurred. 

The  slight  figure  of  the  youth  she  once  knew  had  now  acquired  both 
breadth  and  height.  His  wide  chest  and  shoulders  displayed  stalwart 
proportions  beneath  his  cuirass  and  breast-plate  of  burnished  steel.  His 
handsome  features  showed  manlier,  and  bore  a more  confirmed  expres- 
sion beneath  the  visor  and  head-piece  of  his  helm.  The  light  flaxen 
curls  which  had  formerly  been  allowed  to  revel  in  luxuriance  around  the 
page’s  countenance,  and  had  given  it  an  effeminate  beauty,  were  now 
close-trimmed  and  shorn,  and  showed  little  or  none  beside  the  beard  and 
moustache  that  gave  additional  vigour  to  the  knightly  face. 

u It  is  to  your  prowess  I owe  the  rescue  of  my  faithful  Grym,  I 
doubt  not,  sir  knight;”  said  the  lady  Gruoch.  “ It  is  to  you  I owe  the 
sad  pleasure  of  witnessing  his  last  moments,  and  mourning  the  loss  of 
his  trusty  worth,  while  I received  the  last  pledge  of  his  devotion,  and 
acknowledged  it  with  thanks  and  approval  that  consoled  him  in  death. 
Tell  me  how  it  was  that  you  came  to  his  aid.” 

“ I was  on  my  way  to  the  castle  through  yonder  wood ;”  replied 
Culen,  “ when  hearing  the  noise  of  an  affray,  I pricked  my  horse  for- 
ward, and  found  Grym  hard  pressed  by  numbers.  He  was  surrounded 
by  a party  of  Kernes,  with  whom  he  was  fighting  desperately,  spite  of 
their  superior  force.  I rushed  to  his  aid ; but  it  was  too  late.  The 
villains  fled  at  my  approach,  but  they  had  wounded  Grym  so  severely, 
that  he  could  but  reach  the  castle  in  time  to  render  his  breath  at  the 
feet  of  his  lady.  Happy  at  least  in  that  one  circumstance  of  his  fate.” 

“ Fulfilment  of  purpose  is  the  great  end  of  life  ;”  said  the  lady 
thoughtfully,  placing  her  crimson-smirched  hand  upon  the  letter  within 
her  bosom.  u And  Grym  fulfilled  his  ; worthily,  faithfully!” 

“ And  you  have  fulfilled  yours,  sir  Culen  ;”  resumed  she  after  a 


160 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


pause.  u I see  you  have  won  your  spurs  ; you  have  achieved  knight- 
hood ; you  have  gained  prowess  in  arms.  Let  me  see  the  device  you 
have  adopted  for  your  shield said  she,  raising  the  buckler  to  inspect 
the  emblazonment  and  motto  which  it  bore.  They  were,  a silken 
cushion  turning  back  the  point  of  an  arrow  aimed  against  it,  with  the 
words  “ ex  otio  repugnantia .” 

The  allusion  was  too  pointed  to  be  forgotten.  The  smile  of  the 
lady  G-ruoch  showed  that  she  remembered  the  incident,  and  that  she 
appreciated  the  homage  to  her  will  indicated  in  the  device  he  had 
chosen. 

“ The  arm  that  you  redeemed  from  a service  of  luxurious  ease,”  said 
Culen,  elated  by  her  smile,  “ has  learned  strength,  and  the  power  of  re- 
sistance ; only  too  proud  if  it  may  return  to  devote  its  allegiance  in  the 
same  behalf.  Use  the  power,  as  you  formerly  deigned  to  avail  yourself 
of  the  ease,  afforded  by  the  arm  Let  me  still  serve  my  lady,  but  as  her 
knight  now, — not  as  her  page  ” 

u A trusty  squire  of  dames  sir  Culen  will  ever  be,  I doubt  not.” 
replied  G-ruoch.  u But  let  him  not  think  I esteem  his  companionship 
lightly,  when  I enlist  it  henceforth  in  behalf  of  my  father  rather  than 
myself.  X trust  to  you,  good  Culen,  to  comfort  him,  and  be  to  him  as  a 
son,  when  his  daughter  leaves  him.  Meanwhile  receive  my  earnest 
thanks  for  your  valorous  assistance  to  my  lost  Grym.” 

The  lady  turned  to  quit  the  court-yard  as  she  spoke  ; and  in  the  act 
of  retiring,  her  hand  was  once  more  raised  to  her  bosom,  to  clutch  the 
secured  letter. 

“ When  his  daughter  leaves  him  !”  unconsciously  repeated  Culen 
half  aloud,  in  echo  of  those  words  of  hers  which  had  so  perplexed 
him. 

“ Ay,  master  Culen,”  replied  one  of  the  retainers,  who,  returning  to 
the  spot,  happened  to  overhear  him.  “ Have  you  boen  abroad  in  the 
wo*rld,  and  have  not  heard  that  our  young  lady  is  to  wed  the  valiant 
Macbeth  ? Why,  that  was  the  letter  of  her  betrothed  husband,  that 
she  seized  so  eagerly  from  Grym’s  bloody  doublet.  A lady’s  im- 
patience regards  not  bedabbling  its  dainty  fingers,  when  a lover’s 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


161 

letter  is  in  view,  I warrant  me ; and  yet  I doubt  if  the  omen  be 
canny.” 

Culen  remained  an  instant  in  mute  despair  at  what  he  had  heard, 
confirmed  by  that  which  he  had  seen.  Then,  exclaiming : — “ Fare- 
well ambition,  fame,  hope,  life  itself !”  he  flung  himself  into  the  saddle, 
turned  his  steed’s  head  from  the  court-yard,  urged  the  horse  across  the 
drawbridge,  and  galloped  full  speed  away  from  the  castle  of  Moray 
for  ever. 

The  letter  from  Macbeth  brought  welcome  tidings  indeed.  His  active 
measures  against  the  insurgents  had  been  effectual  in  dispersing  them, 
and  he  was  actually  about  to  quit  the  field  for  Inverness  when  he  wrote. 
Yery  shortly  after,  he  looked  to  set  forth  for  the  castle  of  Moray  ; and 
by  the  time  that  the  letter  reached  the  hands  of  the  lady  G-ruoch,  she 
might  daily  expect  his  approach. 

The  chieftain  and  his  retinue  arrive.  The  venerable  thane  greets 
the  betrothed  husband  of  his  daughter  with  affectionate  welcome.  That 
which  the  lady  Gruoch  extends  to  her  expected  lord  is  no  less  warm. 
Proudly,  exultingly,  she  prepares  to  unite  herself  with  this  noble  war- 
rior, this  king-descended  hero.  A new  existence  is  opening  for  her ; 
a life  of  hope,  of  glory,  of  ambition — of  ambition  satisfied,  in  the  martial 
successes  he  has  already  achieved  ; of  ambition  expectant,  in  the  rank 
and  royal  favour  he  may  still  attain.  A life  of  hope,  glory,  and  am- 
bition, to  be  shared  in  acquirement  and  fulfilment  with  the  man  of  her 
preference.  One  with  whom  she  may  feel  alike  in  ardour,  activity  of 
spirit,  and  daring  aspiration  ; one  with  whom  she  may  happily  reap  the 
fruition  of  their  joint  exertion  and  hopo. 

In  her,  Macbeth  beholds  imperial  beauty.  In  her  there  is  that  which 
at  once  captivates  his  senses,  and  commands  his  admiration  and  esteem. 
There  is  a plenitude  of  feminine  charm  in  the  delicate  features  and  figure 
that  satisfies  his  inclination  for  that  which  is  in  contrast  with  his  own 
manhood  of  strength  and  vigorous  proportion  ; while  in  the  marked 
decision,  self-possessed  manner,  and  confirmed  opinion,  that  distinguish 
her  character,  there  is  that  which  he  feels  supplies  well  the  defects  in 


162 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER.  , 


his  own  nature  of  which  he  is  perhaps  half  conscious.  He  sees  in  hex 
that  which  will  spur  his  ambition,  invigorate  his  will,  give  constancy  and 
energy  to  his  purposes,  steadiness  to  his  aims,  firmness,  solidity,  and  con- 
sistency to  all  his  views,  enabling  him  to  pursue  them  to  a successful 
issue.  He  sees  precisely  the  qualities  in  her  which  will  best  give  stabi- 
lity to  those  points  in  his  own  character  which  most  need  fortifying. 
His  faith  in  her  excellence  is  entire  ; his  subjugation  to  her  charms  is 
complete  ; but  it  is  with  no  unwillingness  that  he  yields  to  the  empire 
she  exercises  over  his  fancy.  He  is  proud  to  call  such  beauty  his  own  ; 
proud  to  submit  himself  to  its  influence  ; proud  to  share  with  her  his 
hopes,  his  life, — to  make  her  the  partner  of  his  greatness.  Proud  were 
they  of  and  in  each  other  ; and  joyfully  did  they  link  their  lives  in  one, 
accepting  a joint  fate  from  that  time  forth. 

The  nuptial  ceremony  was  performed.  The  bridal  train  left  the 
castle-chapel.  The  horses  ready  caparisoned  for  the  journey,  trampled 
and  champed  their  bits  in  the  court-yard  ; and  the  cavalcade  awaited 
but  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  who  were  to  join  them  to  proceed  at  once 
to  the  castle  of  Inverness. 

The  bridegroom  led  his  bride  to  the  hall,  where  they  had  left  her 
father,  that  she  might  receive  his  blessing  as  a new-made  wife,  ere  she 
quitted  the  paternal  roof.  There  sat  the  old  thane,  Kenneth,  in  his 
accustomed  seat  by  the  hearth.  He  was  leaning  back ; his  eyes  were 
shut ; while  the  tears  crept  from  beneath  the  closed  lids,  and  coursed 
down  the  aged  cheeks  ; his  hand  rested  on  the  head  of  one  of  his  favor- 
ite hounds,  that  had  laid  its  muzzle  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  kept 
snuffing  and  whining  uneasily,  as  it  fixed  its  eyes  upon  its  master’s 
sorrowing  face. 

His  daughter  knelt  at  her  father’s  feet,  and  spoke  some  words  of 
comfort  in  her  own  calm  and  self-possessed  way. 

Her  husband  joined  his  expressions  of  kindliness  to  hers.  The  gen- 
tle old  man  roused  himself  feebly,  blessed  them  both,  and  bade  them 
believe  that  his  sadness  at  parting  with  them  was  outweighed  by  his 
happiness  in  having  thus  assured  that  of  his  daughter.  Once  again  he 
blessed  them  ; and  struggled  to  utter  the  word  “ farewell !” 


THE  THANE7S  DAUGHTER. 


163 


Lady  Macbeth  arose — reverently  smoothed  the  snow-white  hairs  on 
either  side  of  the  furrowed  cheeks — kissed  the  venerable  forehead — ex- 
claimed : — “ Farewell,  my  father  !”  Then,  turning  to  her  husband,  she 
said  firmly : — ■“  I am  ready,  my  lord  ! Lead  me  forth.  I am  yours 
now.” 

The  existence  of  the  newly-married  chieftain  and  his  lady,  in  their 
castle  of  Inverness,  fulfilled  the  anticipations  which  the  prospect  of  their 
union  had  excited  in  each.  They  found  their  mutual  satisfaction  as 
ample  and  complete  as  they  had  hoped.  In  all  her  husband’s  pursuits, 
schemes,  and  views,  lady  Macbeth  demonstrated  an  eager  and  intelligent 
participation. 

In  his  wife’s  dominant  beauty,  Macbeth’s  passionate  admiration  found 
full  content ; whilst  in  her  high-reaching  undaunted  spirit  his  own  felt 
support,  encouragement,  incitement,  strength.  His  natural  valour  seemed 
to  gain  fresh  impetus  ; his  bravery  new  vigour  ; his  deeds  additional 
daring,  with  such  an  incentive  by  his  side  to  urge  him.  to  exertion,  and 
with  so  lustrous  an  object  to  gratify  by  his  triumphs. 

Achievement  followed  achievement ; promotion  ensued  to  promotion ; 
fresh  honors  and  renewed  instances  of  royal  favor  were  heaped  upon  the 
chieftain,  near  to  his  sovereign,  both  by  blood  and  by  ties  of  affection. 
For  the  meek-spirited  Duncan  loved  to  rely  upon  the  sterner  counsels 
and  more  active  measures  suggested  by  his  kinsman,  for  escape  from 
public  censure,  which  not  unfrequently  accused  him  of  feebleness  and 
slothfulness  in  the  administration  of  justice. 

Negligence  in  the  due  punishment  of  offenders  ; connivance  at  mis- 
rule among  the  civic  rulers,  and  at  contumacy  among  the  ruled  ; a gene- 
ral want  of  strictness,  and  a perilous  lenity  ; all  combined  to  make  king 
Duncan’s  mild  sway  regarded  rather  as  weakness,  than  as  paternal  indul- 
gence. It  encouraged  faction  and  insubordination,  and  offended  those 
who  sought  protection  from  order  and  judicious  government.  To  pre- 
serve peace  for  the  peaceful,  and  to  secure  safety  from  the  turbulent, 
the  services  of  Macbeth  were  put  in  constant  requisition  by  his  royal 
master. 


164 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


To  his  kinsman,  the  favorite  general,  the  king  looked  for  aid  and 
support  in  every  emergency  of  sedition  and  insurrection ; Macbeth’s 
tactics  and  rigour  of  discipline  rendering  him  no  less  valuable  as  a states- 
man, in  the  cabinet,  than  his  military  skill  and  personal  courage  made 
him  all-powerful  in  the  field. 

To  the  extended  influence  which  accrued  to  him  from  his  large  share 
of  royal  favor,  was  added  increase  of  rank ; for,  not  long  after  his  mar- 
riage, Macbeth,  by  the  death  of  his  father,  Sinel,  became  thane  of 
Glamis. 

These  rapid  and  accumulated  circumstances  in  the  rise  of  Macbeth’s 
fortunes  and  position,  made  the  long-hoarded  secret  hope  of  his  own  and 
wife’s  ambition  assume  a palpable  form ; it  presented  itself  no  longer  as 
a distant  improbability — only  just  barely  posible.  Macbeth  could  not 
but  remember  that  his  own  mother  was  no  less  nearly  descended  from 
the  late  king,  than  she  through  whom  the  reigning  monarch  derived  his 
royal  seat.  They  had  been  sisters ; and  though  the  son  of  the  elder 
now  ruled  in  Scotland,  yet  should  he  cease  to  live,  his  cousin  Macbeth, 
from  kindred,  as  well  as  from  popular  favor,  stood  nearest  in  probable 
succession  to  the  throne.  It  is  true  that  Duncan  had  sons — but  they 
were  quite  young ; and  until  the  elder  should  have  been  created  Prince 
of  Cumberland,  he  was  not  the  royal  heir-apparent.  Meanwhile,  each 
fresh  step  in  Macbeth’s  rank  and  power,  raised  him  still  more  securely 
within  grasp  of  the  secret  object  of  his  wishes  ; and  as  each  grade  be- 
came his,  he  and  his  wife  to  themselves  exulted.  She  could  not  but 
sometimes  allow  her  fancy  to  muse  on  that  predicted  circumstance  in 
her  fate,  which  afforded  confirmation  of  all  that  now  seemed  ripening  to 
a fulfilment — a reality. 

To  inherit  their  present  growing  dignities, — and  that  crowning  one 
which  might  be  in  store  for  them,  a son  was  born  to  them  ; and  Macbeth 
beheld  the  beauty  of  his  mother,  while  she  beheld  the  representative  of 
his  father’s  honors,  in  the  infant  Cormac,  who  thus  enhanced  the  joy  of 
both  parents. 

A secret  faction  arose.  A party  of  the  insurgents  had  the  hardihood 
to  plan  an  attack  upon  the  castle  of  Macbeth,  thinking  the  thane  him- 


THE  THANE* S DAUGHTER. 


165 


self  to  be  sbsent  on  state  affairs.  But  be  had  returned  suddenly  to 
Inverness  from  Fores,  and  he  was  unexpectedly  on  the  spot  to  sally 
forth  and  repel  the  invaders. 

The  encounter  raged  fiercely  for  some  time  on  the  plain  before  the 
castle  walls,  for  the  besiegers  had  assembled  in  great  numbers,  and 
fought  with  desperation,  knowing  they  had  nought  to  expect  from  Mac- 
beth’s rigour  should  they  fall  prisoners  into  his  hands. 

Lady  Macbeth,  anxious  for  her  husband’s  safety,  ascended  to  the  bat- 
tlements with  her  infant  son  in  her  arms,  that  she  might  watch  the 
fight.  She  endeavoured  to  distinguish  her  lord’s  figure  among  the  com- 
batants, to  mark  his  bravery  in  the  strife,  to  follow  his  progress,  to  note 
the  issue  of  his  death-dealing  strokes,  and  to  be  the  first  to  hail  his 
success. 

Her  solicitude  for  his  safety,  soon  yielded  to  admiration  at  his  val- 
our ; she  quenched  all  inquietude  as  to  the  result  of  the  encounter,  in 
the  certainty  of  conquest  which  such  valour  seemed  to  ensure.  She  felt 
that  this  assault  was  already  quelled  ; she  saw  these  rebels  already  de- 
feated. 

She  smiled  as  she  surveyed  the  scene  of  contest,  with  a sense  of 
prospective  victory.  She  heeded  not  the  danger  of  her  own  position,  in 
the  satisfaction  of  observing  the  bravery  of  her  husband ; she  saw  not 
the  peril  that  surrounded  both  himself  and  her,  in  the  thought  of  their 
approaching  triumph. 

For  the  portion  of  the  battlements  where  she  stood,  was  not  entirely 
sheltered  from  the  flying  arrows  of  the  besiegers ; and  at  any  moment 
one  of  these  missiles  might  reach  her,  as  she  stood  there  with  the  child- 
in  her  arms,  marking  the  progress  of  the  skirmish. 

But  close  beside  her — watching  her,  as  intently  as  she  was  watching 
the  field, — crouched  a queer,  shambling,  rough,  bent  figure,  that  kept  its 
eyes  undeviatingly  fixed  upon  her,  as  she  stood  there,  near  the  outer 
wall.  It  was  that  of  a poor  dumb  creature,  a strange,  distorted,  stoop- 
ing, half-wild  being,  who  had  sought  service  among  the  underling  retain- 
ers of  the  household,  and  who  had  shown  a singular  hankering  after  the 
presence  of  the  lady  of  the  castle,  and  an  especial  fondness  for  her  baby 
son,  Cormac. 


166 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


He  would  haunt  the  passages  and  galleries  where  the  women  at- 
tendants were  accustomed  to  pass  with  their  infant  charge.  He  would 
crouch  and  hang  about  the  portions  of  the  castle  which  lady  Macbeth 
was  in  the  habit  of  frequenting.  He  was  shy,  and  shrank  from  notice, 
particularly  from  that  of  the  lord  of  the  castle,  who  knew  not  of  his 
being  there  at  all, — and  was  incognizant  of  the  very  existence  of  so 
iusignificant  a member  of  his  household.  But  even  when  the  dumb 
slouching  Indulph  sought  the  vicinity  of  his  idols,  he  never  courted 
their  regard,  but  slunk  about  their  footsteps,  contented,  as  it  seemed,  to 
behold  them  distantly,  and  hover  in  their  neighbourhood. 

As  for  the  lady  herself,  after  the  first  inquiry  with  regard  to  who  he 
was,  and  how  he  came  to  be  about  the  castle,  she  had  never  thought 
more  of  him,  but  became  accustomed  to  see  him  creeping  and  slinking 
here  and  there,  without  bestowing  farther  heed  to  his  presence.  She  % 
only  knew  that  he  was  a dumb,  harmless,  kind  of  savage,  who  appeared 
to  take  a peculiar  pleasure  in  looking  through  his  fell  of  thick  red  hair, 
at  her  beautiful  babe  and  herself. 

And  there,  at  that  time,  he  lay,  stooped  and  crouching,  close  to  the 
ground,  a yard  or  two  from  the  portion  of  the  battlemented  wall  where 
she  stood.  Upon  her  and  the  child  he  keeps  his  eyes  fixed,  gleaming 
from  amidst  the  shaggy  elf-locks  of  ochrey  red  that  hung  about  his  face, 
and  left  but  little  of  his  features  to  be  distinguished,  save  those  eager 
wild  eyes  that  never  strayed  from  the  objects  of  their  regard. 

Still  the  lady  looks  from  the  battlements,  watching  the  scene  in 
which  her  lord  is  engaged  ; and  still  the  crouching  Indulph  stares  up- 
wards, watching  her  and  the  babe  in  her  arms. 

The  little  Cormac  is  restless,  and  cares  not  to  be  kept  so  long  in  one 
position.  The  dumb  attendant  creeps  nearer  and  more  near,  until  at 
length  he  is  so  close,  that  the  lady  in  her  eagerness  of  noting  the  fight, 
unconsciously  lets  her  child’s  feet  rest  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  crouch- 
ing savage,  who  stoops  there  mutely,  and  steadily  supporting  # the  little 
creature,  though  he  maintains  the  same  earnest  watch  upon  its  mother 
and  itself 

The  child  plays  with  the  red  fell  of  hair,  and  pats  and  clutches 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


167 


among  the  thick  locks,  and  sees  no  repulsive  ugliness  in  the  being  who 
has  always  looked  fondly  upon  him. 

The  mother’s  gaze  is  for  a moment  withdrawn  from  the  object  of  her 
attention,  to  look  towards  her  child,  who  strains  more  and  more  from 
her  arms,  as  he  becomes  more  and  more  occupied  with  his  new  play- 
thing. 

She  sees  him  dallying  and  tugging  with  the  ochre  hair, — she  sees 
him  sporting  with  kindly  hideousness,  and  there  is  something  in  the 
sight  that  brings  Grym  and  her  own  infancy  to  her  thought ; she  finds 
that  his  feet  are  resting  upon  the  ready  patient  shoulder,  and  the  image 
of  Culen  and  his  cushion-arm  comes  into  her  mind  for  one  instant. 

For  one  instant — but  for  one  passing  instant,  does  the  recollection 
of  these  by -gone  things  flit  across  her  memory ; the  next  moment  she 
is  again  absorbed  in  noting  the  scene  that  is  acting  beneath  the  castle 
walls. 

The  child  climbs  back  into  its  mother’s  arms  ; the  battle  rages  on, 
more  fiercely  and  more  near,  and  in  her  increased  interest  in  the  con- 
test, lady  Macbeth  receives  her  little  son  half  unconsciously,  clasping 
him  to  her  bosom,  without  withdrawing  her  eyes  from  the  fight. 

The  combatants  press  more  closely.  The  besiegers  rally ; they  rush 
forwards,  and  make  a desperate  attempt  to  force  a breach  through  a 
portion  of  the  defending  party  that  seems  less  strong  than  elsewhere. 
A shower  of  arrows  is  discharged,  and  a few  of  them  flying  higher  than 
the  rest,  reach  the  battlements  over  which  the  lady  is  leaning. 

Indulph  springs  from  his  lair.  He  makes  wild  and  vehement  gesti- 
culations to  his  lady  that  she  should  retire  from  the  dangerous  station 
she  is  occupying.  But  she  is  intent  upon  the  affray,  and  heeds  him  not. 

An  arrow  alights  near  the  spot.  Then  another.  In  despair  at  her 
peril,  Indulph  exclaims  : — 

u For  your  boy’s  sake,  if  not  your  own,  stand  back,  madam !” 

The  lady  starts,  and  looks  round  in  amazement. 

“ Indulph  ! Can  the  dumb  speak  ! And  with  that  voice,  too  ! I 
surely  know  that  voice  !” 

She  fixes  her  eyes  upon  the  stooping,  crouching,  dumb  savage,  now 


168 


THE  THANE7S  DAUGHTER. 


erect,  alert,  energetic,  eager,  imploring  her  to  withdraw  from  her  perilous 
situation. 

In  another  instant,  he  darts  forward,  covers  her  son  and  herself  with 
his  interposed  body,  while  the  threatening  arrow  pierces  his  own  throat, 
and  he  falls  at  her  feet. 

The  locks  of  red  hair  are  scattered  back  from  the  dying  face,  and 
lady  Macbeth  recognizes  without  a doubt,  the  features  of  Culen. 

She  bends  over  him,  and  utters  his  name  with  wonder  and  pity. 

“I  no  longer  envy  Grrym  he  murmurs. 

“But  how  came  you  hither  ? What  means  this  disguise  ?”  she  said, 
after  a pause. 

“ I could  not  live  without  beholding  you.  I had  lost  all  hope — I re- 
linquished fame  as  worthless.  I crept  hither,  hiding  stature,  features, 
voice,  beneath  the  stoop,  the  stained  hair,  and  the  eternal  silence  of  the  * 
dumb  crouching  Indulph,  in  the  single  thought  of  again  living  in  your 
presence — and  it  might  be,  of  dying  in  your  service.  I am  blest  that 
it  is  thus.” 

The  secret  lay  revealed  before  her.  Love  for  her — a passionate  de- 
votion to  herself,  had  then  inspired  this  heart,  that  was  fast  ebbing 
forth  its  last  tide  at  her  feet.  But  the  thought  of  how  this  would  ap- 
pear to  Macbeth,  were  he  to  come  to  a knowledge  of  this  passion,  beset 
her  with  a sense  of  annoyance  and  vexation.  She  felt  mortified  rather 
than  exalted  by  the  discovery  of  this  fervent  attachment ; and  a stern 
look  settled  upon  her  face,  as  she  watched  the  blood  that  oozed  from  the 
death-wound. 

Footsteps  approach.  Macbeth  is  seeking  her,  and  hurries  towards 
the  spot  where  she  stands,  that  he  may  tell  her  all  is  well  over — that 
their  enemies  are  defeated — that  the  day  is  their  own. 

u But  how  comes  this  wounded  man  here  ?”  said  her  lord,  when  he 
had  received  her  proud  congratulations.  “A  stranger!  Perhaps  a 
traitor  !”  added  he.  “ Do  you  know  who  or  what  he  is,  dearest  chuck  ?” 

The  dying  eyes  mutely  entreat  her,  that  he  may  have  the  bliss  of 
hearing  her  acknowledge  his  lifelong  faithful  attachment.  But  hers  are 
averted — she  will  not  meet  his  look — she  will  not  see  his  last  request. 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


169 


u It  is  Indulph,  the  dumb  helper,  my  lord,”  said  one  of  the  by- 
standing  attendants.  “ He  is  wounded  in  the  throat  — mortally,  I 
think.” 

“ He  saved  our  boy’s  life,  by  the  loyal  intervention  of  his  person, 
my  lord,”  said  Lady  Macbeth ; u thank  him  for  us  both.” 

u It  is  too  late ; the  brave  fellow’s  dead said  Macbeth,  looking  at 
the  expiring  throe  with  a soldier’s  experienced  eye,  and  with  the  indif- 
ference to  death  proper  to  one  bred  amid  scenes  of  slaughter.  u Come, 
my  dearest  love,  let  you  and  I,  in  to  the  castle  ; and  rejoice  at  our  suc- 
cess. A feast  shall  be  held  in  honor  of  our  victory  ; and  this  young 
hero’s  escape  shall  be  celebrated  in  flowing  wine-cups.  You  breed  our 
boy  well,  sweet  wife,  in  teaching  him  thus  to  look  upon  a battle-field  be- 
times. Thou  art  truly  fit  to  be  mother  to  a race  of  heroes  !” 

Not  long  after  Macbeth  thus  felicitated  his  wife  and  himself  on  the 
salvation  of  their  son,  the  child’s  life  was  threatened  by  sickness.  His 
mother  nursed  him  like  a mother ; while  her  anxiety  was  shared  by  her 
husband,  who  passionately  loved  them  both. 

But  fate  has  decreed  that  the  boy  shall  not  live  ; the  little  Cormac 
yields  to  the  disease,  and  is  carried  off  in  his  infancy. 

In  the  midst  of  her  fierce  pang  for  the  loss  of  her  offspring,  Lady 
Macbeth  receives  tidings  of  her  old  father’s  death ; but  she  bears  both 
strokes  with  her  stern  composure,  that  she  may  stimulate  her  more  im- 
pressible husband,  whose  duty  calls  him  from  Inverness. 

She  firmly  urges  him  to  obey  the  mandate  which  summons  him  to 
Fores  ; where  his  presence  is  required  by  his  sovereign,  king  Duncan, 
that  he  may  aid  in  repelling  a threatened  invasion  from  Norway;  and  in 
quelling  an  insurrection  that  has  arisen  in  the  Western  Isles. 

This  latter  is  headed  by  Macdonwald,  one  of  the  chief  among  those 
traitors  most  disaffected  to  the  present  dynasty.  He  has  been  heard  to 
utter  railing  taunts  against  king  Duncan,  declaring  him  to  be  a £ chicken- 
heart,  more  fit  to  preside  over  a brotherhood  of  idle  monks  in  a cloister, 
than  to  have  the  government  of  such  valiant  and  hardy  men  of  war  as 
the  Scots.’ 


170 


THE  THANE  S DAUGHTER. 


Lady  Macbeth  fails  not  to  remind  her  lord  of  how  closely  his  own 
interest  is  concerned  in  preserving  the  throne  from  assailants  ; its  pre- 
sent occupant  being  of  his  own  line,  and  scarcely  retaining  tenure  by  a 
nearer  claim  of  blood  thai\  that  which  he  himself  possesses.  Between 
the  husband  and  wife,  the  question  of  this  equally  near  claim,  and  its 
possible  results,  has  been  discussed ; but  with  scarce-uttered,  scarce- 
conceived  intentions  ; neither  season  nor  opportunity  offering  for  the  re- 
moval of  the  one  obstacle  to  their  wishes.  Their  imaginations  are  fired 
with  the  same  thought;  but  they  hardly  permit  its  burning  image  to  be 
visible  to  each  other.  Dimly,  luridly,  it  lurks  latent,  fed  with  foul  va- 
pours of  unhallowed  desire  ; only  vaguely,  dare  they  permit  themselves 
to  shape  its  existence  in  words  ; — but  they  know  and  feel,  that  a crown, 
— even  though  it  be  gemmed  with  bloody  drops, — is,  in  fact,  that  one 
glowing  thought. 

The  thane  departs. 

Lady  Macbeth  receives  tidings  of  her  husband’s  progress  from  time 
to  time ; for  he  has  no  dearer  thought  than  that  of  sharing  his  successes 
with  her. 

He  sends  messengers  with  letters  to  her  ; informing  her  of  his  gra- 
cious reception  by  the  king,  of  the  confidence  expressed  in  the  succour 
he  can  afford  to  the  state,  of  the  entire  reliance  upon  his  counsels  and 
prowess.  He  tells  her  that  he  has  responded  to  the  monarch’s  wishes, 
by  undertaking  the  whole  direction  of  the  royal  forces : upon  condition 
that  no  misplaced  leniency  shall  interfere  with  his  proceedings,  and  that 
the  unreserved  controul  and  appointment  of  the  war  shall  be  placed  in 
the  hands  of  himself,  and  of  Banquo,  thane  of  Loehaber,  to  conduct  as 
they  list,  and  as  best  shall  seem  to  them.  Under  their  combined  gene- 
ralship, thus  unrestricted,  he  has  undertaken,  that  the  rebels  shall  be 
shortly  vanquished  and  put  down. 

Exultingly  expectant,  Lady  Macbeth  abides  in  the  castle  of  Inver- 
ness ; and  each  fresh  letter  that  she  receives,  confirms  by  its  prosperous 
intelligence,  the  fulfilment  of  her  aspiring  hopes. 

News  reaches  her  of  the  successful  issue  of  the  combat  between  her 
lord  and  the  rebel  Macdonwald,  whose  traitor  head  is  fixed  upon  the 
royalist  battlements. 


THE  THANE’S  DAUGHTER. 


171 


Close  upon  the  heels  of  that  messenger  arrives  another,  who  brings 
word  of  the  encounter  at  Fife,  wherein  the  invading  army  of  Sweno,  the 
Norway  king,  is  put  to  the  rout  and  defeated,  and  the  victory  secured, 
by  Macbeth,  who  is  to  be  invested  immediately  with  the  forfeited  title 
and  estates  of  the  thane  of  Cawdor ; he  having  disloyally  fought  beneath 
the  Norwegian  banner. 

Scarcely  has  Lady  Macbeth  welcomed  these  tidings,  when  a letter  is 
placed  in  her  hands  by  a trusty  envoy  from  her  lord,  wherein  she  reads 
words  of  wondrous  import,  that  kindle  into  flame  the  smouldering  fire 
of  her  thought. 

Her  self-communing  upon  this  perusal,  begins  in  these  words  of 
apostrophe  to  her  lord  : — 

u Glamis  thou  art , and  Cawdor ; and  shalt  be 
What  thou  art  promis'd” 


But  that  c our  will  become  the  servant  to  defect,’  the  above  should 
be  c prologue  to  the  swelling  act  of  the  imperial  theme.’ 


HELENA 


TALE  III. 


HELENA;  THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


“ She  derives  her  honesty,  and  achieves  her  goodness.” 

All’s  well  that  ends  well. 


u Well  met !”  said  the  chevalier  de  Yaumond,  to  his  friend,  Gautier 
Gerard,  as  the  two  young  men  encountered  each  other  in  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal streets  of  Perpignan,  on  a certain  fine  summer  morning.  u And 
pray  whither  may  you  he  bound,  my  good  fellow  ? On  some  scheme  of 
pleasure,  I trust.  Do,  for  once  in  a way,  consent  to  omit  attendance 
upon  that  very  worthy,  but  unquestionably  prosy  Professor  of  yours, 
and  leave  him  to  lecture  to  the  few  steady  stolidities,  your  brother- 
students,  who  may  be  absurd  enough  to  hold  it  their  duty  not  to  play 
truant,  when  such  a morning  as  this  bids  them  keep  outside  of  College 
walls.” 

Gerard  answered  w‘th  a smile. 

u You  will  not  call  it  a scheme  of  pleasure,  perhaps,  de  Yaumond. 
Your  taste  has  no  relish  for  rural  enjoyment.  For  my  part,  I long  for 
a pure  breeze,  a stout  walk,  the  broad  expanse  of  sky,  and  the  open, 
honest  face  of  Nature.  I have  been  studying  hard  ; and  had  determined 
to  give  myself  a holiday  this  morning : and  so  took  my  way  forth  early, 
resolved  not  to  set  foot  again  within  the  gates  of  Perpignan,  for  many  a 
pleasant  hour  of  freedom,  fresh  air,  and  exercise.” 

“ And  what  says  Papa  Gerard  to  such  a spell  of  liberty  as  that  V 1 
asked  his  friend.  “ Can  he  let  you  absent  yourself  so  long  from  the 


176 


HELENA  ! 


Temple  of  Mammon,  the  cavern  of  golden  ingots,  the  precious  store- 
house of  wealth,  the  beloved  Banking-house  1 But  I forget,  good  Papa 
Gerard  wills  that  his  son  and  heir  shall  redeem  the  bourgeois  stain, 
erase  the  roturier  stigma  from  the  family  name,  and  raise  the  dignity 
of  his  house,  by  eschewing  the  clerkly  stool  and  mercantile  desk  for 
the  higher  honors  of  the  medical  chair.  Well,  did  the  young  doctor 
obtain  the  paternal  sanction  for  this  long  holiday  ?” 

The  chevalier  glanced  somewhat  maliciously  into  his  friend’s  face,  as 
he  made  this  broad  allusion  to  the  merchant-banker’s  well-known  strict 
maintenance  of  patriarchal  authority.  But  young  Gerard,  though  he 
colored  slightly,  only  said  with  a good-humoured  laugh,  u Oh  yes,  I have 
leave  of  absence  ; so  let  us  be  off!  That  is,  if  you  care  to  go.” 

u If  I do,  you  must  promise  not  to  keep  up  such  a striding  pace,  my 
good  fellow !”  said  the  chevalier  in  a languid  tone,  and  suddenly  coming 
to  a halt.  u Recollect,  the  breezes  won’t  float  away,  or  the  sky  fade  be- 
yond your  ken,  or  the  fields  run  from  you.  So  you  needn’t  pursue  them 
at  that  Atlantean  rate.  And  besides  abjuring  this  foot-race  speed,” 
continued  he,  when  they  had  resumed  their  walk  at  a more  moderate 
pace,  “ you  must  promise  not  to  let  your  proposed  long  walk  detain  me 
beyond  a reasonable  hour  of  return  this  evening.  I have  an  appoint- 
ment in  the  Rue  Grenoble,  after  sunset,  that  I would  not  miss  for  all 
the  rural  landscapes  that  ever  were  beheld.” 

u I wish  you  would  give  up  those  meetings  in  the  Rue  Grenoble,  my 
dear  Etienne,”  said  Gerard  earnestly.  “ You  waste  your  health,  your 
fortune,  and  your  best  energies,  by  devoting  them  to  so  worthless  a pur- 
suit as  gambling.  Shutting  yourself  up  night  after  night,  as  you  do,  in 
that  stifling  saloon,  breathing  only  its  impure  air,  scorched  by  wax- 
lights,  reeking  with  fevered  breath,  poisonous  with  unwholesome  mur- 
murs and  imprecations ; and  this  you  prefer  to  the  balm  of  evening  air, 
the  glow  of  sunset,  and  the  tranquillity  of  a country  scene  !” 

u I never  could  see  the  vaunted  charm  of  rural  delights,  for  my  part,” 
said  Etienne  de  Yaumond  peevishly.  “ They  seem  to  me  to  consist  in 
dusty  roads,  vicious  cows,  wallowing  hogs,  stupid-faced  baaing  sheep,  ill- 
victualled  larders,  infamously-cooked  dinners,  milk-pans  for  wine-flasks — 


THE  PHYSICIAN'S  ORPHAN. 


177 


or  vinegar,  by  courtesy  called  wine,— louts  of  men,  and  thick-ankled, 
red-banded,  sun-burned  women.” 

“ Do  you  find  no  charm  in  such  a spot  as  this?”  asked  Gerard,  as  the 
two  young  men  turned  at  this  moment  out  of  the  high  road,  along  which 
they  had  been  proceeding  hitherto,  and  entered  a small  wicket-gate 
which  opened  into  a broad-spreading  meadow.  “ Do  you  see  no- 
thing pleasant  in  this  green-sward  beneath  our  feet — those  waving 
corn-fields  yonder,  those  stretching  uplands — that  wooded  descent  on 
the  left,  combining  the  bright  green  of  chesnuts,  the  sombre  silveriness 
of  olives,  the  walnut,  and  tufted  mulberry — that  clear  mill-stream  be- 
low— those  trailing  vines  on  the  right,  flaunting  and  twining  in  profuse 
festoons  from  tree  to  tree — these  shadowing  oaks  above  our  heads,  with 
their  rugged  branches,  and  clusters  of  leaves  so  richly  defined  against 
the  blue  sky  beyond — the  smell  of  the  earth,  of  the  fresh  air,  mingled 
with  the  wafted  fragrance  of  blossoms,  of  weeds,  and  odorous  breath  of 
kine  ? Is  there  nothing  in  these  shapes  and  scents  of  Nature  that  stirs 
a sense  of  enjoyment  within  you,  and  rouses  an  emotion  of  gladness  and 
gratitude?” 

The  chevalier  looked  at  his  friend  with  a sort  of  wonder,  and  a light 
laugh,  as  his  only  reply  to  an  enthusiasm  which  he  could  not  under- 
stand. Gerard  felt,  at  the  first  moment,  that  kind  of  bashfulne^s  com- 
mon to  ingenuous  youth  when  it  finds  itself  suddenly  betrayed  into  the 
expression  of  a deep  feeling,  which  has  been  long  allowed  to  dwell 
secretly  within.  The  surprise  mirrored  in  a commonplace  countenance 
checks  the  sentiment’s  utterance  as  something  misplaced  and  absurd  ; 
but  an  honest  heart  will  recover  soon  from  this  first  misgiving,  and,  with 
faith  in  its  own  true  feeling,  will  only  cherish  it  more  deeply  than  ever, 
though  learning  to  guard  it  henceforth  more  sacredly  from  unsympathetic 
observation. 

The  two  young  men  walked  on  a few  paces  in  silence : then  fell  into 
a lively  talk  about  some  of  their  mutual  friends  and  companions  ; of  a 
fencing-match  that  was  in  prospect ; of  the  chevalier’s  determination  to 
enjoy  to  the  utmost  the  independence  which  had  lately  fallen  to  him  by 
the  death  of  his  father;  hints  of  the  commiseration  he  felt  for  his 


178 


HELENA  J 


friend,  less  favored  by  fortune  in  this  respect  than  himself,  seeing  that 
Gerard  was  still  subject  to  parental  domination. 

“ My  father  loves  to  see  me  yield  with  a good  grace  to  his  will,  it  is 
true ;”  said  Gerard  with  his  former  half-blush  and  smile  ; and  sometimes 
he  seems  to  forget  that  I have  trebled  six  years,  for  he  still  talks  to  me 
as  if  I were  a child  of  that  age,  and  questions  me  of  college  studies  as 
he  used  then  to  do  of  my  baby  lessons  and  good  behaviour.  But  it  is 
only  the  partial  fondness  of  a father  for  his  only  son,  that  makes  him 
unwilling  to  give  up  this  tone,  and  I should  be  churlish  indeed  if  I re- 
sented as  interference,  what  is  only  affectionate  anxiety  for  my  good.” 
u As  long  as  his  notions  of  what  may  be  your  good,  and  your  notions 
of  your  own  good,  chance  to  accord,  this  may  be  all  well  and  good, 
my  good  fellow,  and  so  far  so  good;”  retorted  de  Yaumond;  “ but 
depend  on’t,  when  difference  of  opinion  shall  arise  between  you  upon 
this  point, — as  it  must  and  will,  some  day  or  other — you  may  find  Papa 
Gerard’s  solicitude  for  your  welfare  a little  troublesome,  mon  cher.” 

“ Well,  till  that  day  arrives,  I am  contented  to  remember  only  that  his 
paternal  ordering  of  my  affairs  has  hitherto  been  productive  of  nothing 
but  benefit  to  me  ;”  said  Gerard.  u He  has  given  me  a liberal  education, 
a liberal  allowance,  and  destines  me  for  a liberal  profession — for  all 
which  I am  heartily  grateful,  and  think  the  least  return  I can  make  for 
so  much  liberality  on  his  part,  is  generosity  in  construing  his  kindness, 
and  a dutiful  observance  of  his  wishes  on  mine.” 

“ Which  observance  includes  entire  submission  of  your  will  to  his ;” 
muttered  the  chevalier  ; “ appropriation  of  your  time  according  to  his  dis- 
posal ; shaping  your  goings  and  comings  solely  by  his  good  leave  ; taking 
your  meals  at  his  appointed  hours ; responsible  to  him  in  all  things  ; 
your  thoughts,  opinions,  feelings,  scarce  your  own ; — for  depend  on  it, 
such  tyranny  grows  by  indulgence,  and  your  penalty  will  be  slavery  com- 
plete. You  have  had  your  profession  chosen  for  you  with  a view  to 
helping  the  family  honor  a step  up  in  the  world — from  the  rotourier 
wealth  of  the  banker,  to  the  hoped-for  renown  of  the  physician  ; and 
next,  you  will  have  your  wife  chosen  for  you,  as  a means  of  obtaining 
another  grade  in  society.  I should  not  wonder  if  some  demoiselle  of 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


179 


gentle  Mood  is  even  now  in  Papa  Gerard’s  eyes,  who  shall  link  his  name 
with  nobility.” 

Gerard  laughed  out.  “ You  have  indeed  drawn  a formidable  picture, 
de  Vaumond;  and  I must  add,  an  exaggerated  one.  But  however  that 
may  be,  as  there  is  no  chance  of  so  serious  a controul  being  exercised 
over  my  inclinations  as  marrying  me  against  my  will,  yet,  let  us  enjoy 
the  holiday  vouchsafed  to  me  at  present.  Hark,  what  music  is  that  % 
There  seems  to  be  a village  festival  going  on  here.” 

As  Gerard  finished  speaking,  he  and  his  companion  emerged  from  the 
wood  through  which  they  had  taken  their  way  after  crossing  the  meadow, 
and  they  suddenly  came  upon  a scene  animated  and  gay,  that  formed  a 
striking  contrast  with  the  solitude  and  quiet  amid  which  they  had  pre- 
viously wandered. 

There  was  a large  assembly  of  peasants,  who  had  gathered  from  sev- 
eral neighbouring  villages  to  celebrate  the  festival  of  the  patron  saint  of 
the  vicinity.  All  were  in  their  holiday  array ; all  was  sport,  feasting, 
and  sylvan  revelry. 

The  spot  was  a village  green.  Several  cottages  were  sprinkled 
around,  forming  a not  very  considerable  hamlet ; and  farther  on,  might 
be  seen  the  tower  of  the  rustic  church,  with  its  few  grassy  tombs  beneath, 
surmounted  by  their  sparkling  gilt  crosses,  hung  with  garlands,  and 
bespread  with  scattered  flowers.  But  flowers  and  garlands  prevailed 
everywhere  in  the  scene  that  presented  itself  to  the  eyes  of  the  two 
young  men.  Heaps  of  flowers  decorated  every  window;  festoons  of 
flowers  hung  from  door  to  door,  looped  and  fastened  with  gay-colored 
ribands ; long  chains  of  flowers  were  suspended  in  all  directions  from 
the  spreading  tree  tha4*  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  green  sward  ; nosegays 
of  flowers  were  in  all  hands ; coronals  of  flowers  decked  all  heads ; 
bunches  of  flowers  were  set  out  upon  all  the  tables ; and  some  favorite 
flower  adorned  the  vest  of  each  of  the  lads,  and  the  boddice  of  each  of 
the  lasses. 

In  one  corner  sat  the  group  that  furnished  the  music  for  the  occa- 
sion. Homely  were  the  pipes  that  blew,  and  slightly  skilled  might  be 
the  bow,  which  scraped  those  sounds  of  mirth,  but  well  they  sufficed  for 


180 


HELENA  ; 


timing  the  gay  footing  of  the  dancers,  who  with  native  vivacity  and 
grace  were  bounding  away  in  joyous  lightsome  measure,  while  some 
brandished  tambourines  high  above  their  heads,  and  thrummed  and 
jingled  to  aid  the  music,  and  swell  the  merry  uproar. 

Cordially  rang  the  laughing  voices,  sprightly  were  the  glances,  cheer- 
ful the  hearts,  swift  the  steps,  whisking  the  petticoats,  rapid  the  heads, 
sudden  the  arms,  pliant  the  waists,  twinkling  the  feet,  bright  the  colors 
of  the  holiday  garbs,  as  the  peasant  youths  and  maidens  darted  to  and 
fro  in  their  mad-cap  sport,  and  hand-in-hand  da, nee. 

The  turf  seemed  alive  with  bright-coloured  beings,  on  the  spot  where 
the  dancing  was  at  its  height.  But  spreading  in  all  directions,  were 
animated  groups  of  gaily-clothed  peasants ; some  two  and  two,  with  bent 
heads  and  low  earnest  tones,  engaged  in  rural  courtship.  Others  lolling 
on  the  grass,  toying,  and  chatting,  and  frolicking,  in  games  where  some 
half  dozen  were  occupied  together  ; a gaping  crowd  farther  on,  collected 
round  the  wonder-rife  table  of  an  escamoteur ; another  grinning  at  the 
humours  of  a charlatan,  holding  forth  in  extolment  of  his  wares  ; another 
staring  wide-mouthed  and  nez-en-l’air  at  the  marvellous  leaps  and  bounds 
of  a voltigeur ; at  the  tables  sat  a knot  of  village-politicians,  listening  to 
some  favorite  orator,  or  a set  of  jolly  fellows  drinking,  or  another  set 
deep  in  the  interest  of  dominoes ; and  on  benches  around,  sat  groups  of 
elders,  proud  mothers,  gray-headed  fathers,  discreet  aunts,  indulgent 
uncles,  gossip  lovers,  talkers,  and  lookers-on  of  all  sorts. 

u I suppose. you  feel  no  inclination  to  sue  for  one  of  those  red  hands, 
as  partner  in  the  dance,  de  Yaumond;”  said  Gerard,  smiling.  “Those 
damsels  are  all  too  thick-ankled  or  too  sun-burned  for  your  worship’s  fas- 
tidious town-taste,  of  course  ? And  yet,  do  you  know,  they  look  so  gay 
and  good-humoured,  and  I can,  methinks,  even  at  this  distance,  discern 
many  a trim  foot  and  slender  waist  among  them,  that  would  be  quite 
comely  enough  for  my  turn,  if  one  of  their  pretty  owners  would  indulge 
me  with  her  hand,  for  a dance  or  two.  I am  still  quite  boy  enough  to 
feel  my  blood  tingle  to  make  one  in  such  a merry  dance  as  that  yonder. 
Come,  what  say  you  to  one  dance  among  them?  Let’s  be  worthy 
Frenchmen,  and  find  a dance  irresistible,  when  a pleasant  one  offers ! 
Come !” 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


181 


u I care  little  for  dancing,”  answered  the  chevalier ; u hut  a tumbler 
of  cool  wine,  now,  after  our  long  walk,  would  not  be  amiss.  Perhaps 
some  of  the  swains  may  be  willing  to  bestow  one,  in  good  fellowship 
with  a gentleman.  We’ll  see.” 

“ What  if  you  can  get  a draught  of  milk  only  ; or  a vinegar  pota- 
tion?” said  Gerard,  as  the  two  young  men  approached  the  busy  scene; 
iC  you  know,  dairies  are  the  only  cellars  in  the  country, — and  milk-pans 
the  only  wine-flasks ; unless  you  consent  to  drink  vinegar  under  the 
name  of  vin  du  pays.” 

The  chevalier  made  his  way  to  one  of  the  tables,  where  he  soon  made 
himself  at  home  with  its  occupants  ; gravely  bantering  the  politicians,  by 
engaging  them  in  mock  disputes,  telling  them  marvellous  news,  and 
inventing  strange  rumours  ; winking  humourously  at  the  by-standers, 
making  them  parties  to  his  jokes  upon  the  sages,  winning  their  personal 
liking  by  easy  chat,  familiar  convivial  manner,  and  sociable  enjoyment 
of  the  wine-cup  that  was  passing  freely  round. 

Meanwhile,  Gerard  lingered  near  the  dancers,  watching  their  move- 
ments, and  looking  upon  the  many  pretty  faces  and  comely  shapes  ; try- 
ing to  make  up  his  mind  which  of  them  he  should  ask  to  be  his  partner, 
when  the  dance  should  break  up  and  another  should  be  formed. 

While  he  was  thus  engaged,  a remarkably  sweet-speaking  voice 
struck  his  ear.  He  turned,  but  could  see  no  one  near,  to  whom  the 
voice  seemed  to  belong. 

It  is  singular  to  notice  how  rapidly  the  mind  decides,  under  such 
circumstances,  in  . appropriating  particular  voices  to  particular  casts  of 
countenance ; a glance  suffices,  at  a strange  face,  to  ascertain  whether 
the  sound  just  heard  by  chance,  has  proceeded  from  that  person  or  not. 

Again  the  soft  feminine  tone  reached  Gerard’s  ear,  and  though  he 
could  not  distinguish  the  words  it  uttered,  he  felt  irresistibly  attracted 
to  discover  and  look  upon  the  speaker.  He  was  leaning  against  the  fine 
large  tree  that  formed  the  centre  of  the  village-green,  and  he  fancied 
that  the  sound  proceeded  from  the  other  side  of  the  aged  trunk,  which 
was  so  large  in  the  circumference  of  its  bole,  that  it  might  well  screen 
several  persons  from  his  view.  He  moved  round  the  tree,  and  saw  a 


182 


HELENA  ; 


group  of  persons  who  were  seated  beneath  its  shade  on  the  opposite 
side.  A grey-headed  man,  whose  garb  at  once  proclaimed  him  to  be  the 
venerable  Cure  of  the  village,  sat  on  a wooden  chair  with  his  back  to- 
wards Gerard,  whilst  opposite  to  him  was  seated  a white-capped,  gold- 
earringed,  smooth-aproned,  wrinkle-cheeked,  but  quick-eyed  old  dame, 
who  seemed  to  be  his  Bonne.  She  was  knitting  diligently,  but  her  keen 
eyes  were  not  required  for  her  work ; her  practised  hands  plied  the 
needles  with  twinkling  rapidity,  and  allowed  her  sharp  glances  to  be 
wholly  absorbed  by  another  object. 

Over  the  back  of  the  Cure’s  chair  leaned  the  figure  of  a young  pea- 
sant girl.  She  had  drooped  over  the  shoulder  of  the  old  man,  so  that 
her  face  rested  nearly  on  his  bosom,  whence  it  looked  up  at  the  Bonne, 
and  was  indeed  the  object  upon  which  her  keen  eyes  rested. 

By  the  young  girl’s  position,  her  face  was  entirely  hidden  from 
Gerard’s  sight,  but  as  soon  as  that  bending  figure  met  his  eye,  Gerard 
felt  no  hesitation  in  at  once  ascribing  the  voice  he  heard,  to  herself. 
There  was  something  harmonious  in  the  flexible  grace  of  the  outline 
that  seemed  to  claim  affinity  with  the  gentle  tones  ; something  of  beau- 
ty, purity,  and  attractive  charm  that  rendered  both  naturally  akin. 

u But  your  father  should  not  have  allowed  you  to  come  alone  !”  re- 
torted the  Bonne  with  a tone  as  sharp  as  her  eyes,  to  something  the 
sweet  voice  had  just  said. 

u I did  not  come  alone  it  replied.  u My  father  sent  Petit  Pierre, 
with  me.” 

“ Bah ! Petit  Pierre,  indeed !”  was  the  tart  exclamation  of  the 
Bonne,  with  a cutting  flash  of  her  eyes,  and  a smart  snap  of  her  knit- 
ting-needles — “ Petit  Pierre,  forsooth  ! A pretty  person  to  take  care 
of  you ! A cow-boy  ! An  urchin  of  ten  years  old ! A scape-grace 
that  can’t  take  care  of  himself,  much  less  of  any  body  else  ! What 
^ could  your  father  be  thinking  of?” 

a My  father  was  thinking  of  indulging  me,  as  usual ;”  replied  the 
soft  voice.  “ You  know  everybody  says  he  spoils  his  Gabrielle  ; and  as 
he  found  she  was  intent  upon  going,  and  as  nobody  could  be  spared 
from  the  farm  so  well  as  Petit  Pierre,  my  father  sent  him  with  me.” 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


183 


cc  I can’t  think  why  you  were  so  intent  upon  coming,  for  my  part.” 
said  the  old  lady,  darting  another  piercing  glance,  and  sticking  one  of 
her  needles  with  a sudden  stab  into  her  apron-string  ; I don’t  mind 
your  coming  over  quietly,  as  you  do  at  other  times,  to  read,  and  write, 
and  study,  and  to  talk,  and  confess,  to  Monsieur  le  Cure.  That  is  all 
very  right  and  proper,  and  what  he  approves,  I approve,  of  course  ; but 
why  you  should  take  it  into  your  foolish  little  head  to  come  to  the  fete 
is  what  I can’t  fathom,  and  can’t  approve  ; it’s  not  at  all  the  thing  for 
you,  Mademoiselle  Gabrielle,  to  come  here,  with  only  a cow-urchin  to 
take  care  of  you,  among  a parcel  of  strangers,  and  a crowd  of  nobody - 
knows-who  from  the  other  villages. 

Here  the  old  lady  snatched  out  the  knitting-needle  again,  and  darted 
it  into  her  work  with  a poignant  thrust,  and  began  another  row,  without 
so  much  as  suffering  her  eyes  for  an  instant  to  withdraw  from  the  suc- 
cession of  pointed  interrogatories  they  were  aiming  with  such  relentless 
acuteness  into  the  face  that  looked  up  into  hers.  Be  it  remarked,  by 
the  bye,  that  this  excellent  old  Bonne  only  whetted  the  edge  of  her 
vigilance  upon  the  young  girl  from  excess  of  affection  towards  her,  and 
from  a sense  of  her  own  duty  towards  one  she  loved  so  well.  There 
are  many  worthy  Bonnes  like  this  old  lady,  whose  feelings  are  more 
kindly  than  their  manner  ; and  whom  to  judge  by  their  sharp  eyes  and 
tones,  you  would  guess  to  be  possessed  of  hearts  made  of  steel  or  stone, 
and  not  of  such  soft  stuff  as  they  really  are. 

u I believe  we  mustn’t  quarrel  with  anything  that  brings  her  to  us, 
my  good  Jeanneton,”  said  the  old  Cure,  patting  the  head  that  rested 
upon  his  breast,  and  pressing  it  against  him ; u we  are  too  glad  to  have 
Gabrielle  with  us  upon  any  terms,  are  we  not  ?” 

Madame  Jeanneton  only  shook  her  head  sharply,  and  muttered 
something  about  “ spoiled  on  all  hands  ; spoiled  by  her  own  father,  and 
spoiled  by  her  reverend  father,  who  ought  to  know  better.” 

“ It  is  our  fault  if  she  be  spoiled,  certainly,  Madame  Jeanneton,  you 
are  right  enough  there  ;”  said  Monsieur  le  Cure  ; “ for  who  can  help  in- 
dulging Gabrielle  ? Besides,  I don’t  find  that  she  is  spoiled,  for  my 
part;  I think  she’s  very  pleasant  and  good.  4 Gentille-et-sage  ’ I call 


184 


HELENA  : 


her,  don’t  I,  Gabrielle  ? And  Gentille-et-sage  you’ll  continue  to  be, 
spite  of  the  indulgence  of  your  two  old  fathers,  won’t  you,  my  child  2 
After  all,  there’s  a great  difference  between  spoiling  and  indulgence, 
you  know,”  added  the  old  Cure,  as  if  to  disarm  his  Bonne  by  placing 
his  weakness  on  the  high  ground  of  principle ; “ I think  that  in- 
dulgence does  people  good,  makes  them  better-behaved,  and  more 
pleasant — at  least,  sensible  people ; and  our  Gabrielle  is  very  sensible, 
is  she  not  ?” 

“ And  I wished  so  very  very  much  to  see  the  fete  you  cannot  think 
said  the  girl,  with  that  sweet  voice  of  hers,  so  childlike  in  its  simple 
earnestness,  so  girlish  in  its  innocent  gaiety,  so  womanly  in  its  deep 
tenderness.  I had  never  seen  the  famous  feast  of  S.  S.  Pierre  et  Paul, 
though  I have  heard  of  it  ever  since  I can  remember ; so  I could  not 
help  coming  over  this  time.” 

“ But  as  you  are  come  to  the  fete  you  would  like  to  dance,  would 
you  not,  my  child?”  asked  Monsieur.  “Your  young  feet  would  fain 
be  skipping  about,  I dare  say ; wouldn’t  they  ?” 

“ No,  mon  pere  replied  the  girl ; “ I did  not  come  to  dance,  I 
came  to  see  the  fete  ; to  look  on  with  you.” 

Gerard  had  for  some  little  time  past,  been  determining  that  this  was 
the  partner  he  should  best  like  to  obtain  for  the  dance  he  had  proposed 
to  enjoy  ; and  had  determined  to  step  forward  and  ask  her  hand,  when 
there  should  be  a pause  in  the  conversation.  But  these  few  last  words 
discouraged  him. 

As  he  stood  irresolute,  the  girl  slightly  changed  her  position  ; and 
in  raising  her  head  to  look  again  towards  the  dancers,  Gerard  caught  a 
full  view  of  her  face.  It  was  not  strikingly  handsome,  but  it  beamed 
with  good-humour,  good-sense,  candour,  and  a bewitching  look  of  sweet- 
ness that  was  almost  better  than  absolute  beauty. 

At  least,  so  thought  Gerard,  as  he  felt  how  entirely  the  face 
harmonised  with  the  figure  and  the  voice  he  had  already  found  so 
attractive. 

His  hesitation  in  addressing  her,  grew  in  proportion  with  his 
increased  desire  to  obtain  her  for  a partner  in  the  dance ; he  wished 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


185 


for  some  incident  which  might  offer  a medium  for  what  seemed  an 
abruptness,  and  almost  a presumption  in  one  so  wholly  a stranger 
to  her. 

He  had  scarcely  formed  the  wish,  ere  it  was  gratified.  Monsieur  le 
Cure  happened  to  drop  his  stick,  which  had  rested  against  his  knee  ; 
and  Gerard,  alertly  stepping  forward,  and  restoring  it  to  the  old  gen- 
tleman with  a respectful  look  and  a few  pleasant  words,  at  once  gained 
the  means  of  introduction  he  had  desired. 

His  frank,  pleasant  bearing  soon  ingratia^d  him  with  the  little 
party.  He  told  Monsieur  le  Cure  his  name,  and  of  his  having  left 
Perpignan  that  morning,  with  a companion,  in  the  hope  of  enjoying  a 
walk  and  a country  holiday ; he  said  how  pleasantly  fulfilled  his  hope 
had  been  by  coming  unexpectedly  upon  their  village  festival ; he  spoke 
of  his  desire  to  partake  in  the  sports  and  dancing ; and  when  he  reached 
this  point,  he  found  courage  to  conclude,  by  expressing  a hope  that 
Mademoiselle  would  indulge  him  with  her  hand  for  the  next  dance. 

“ Mademoiselle  Gabrielle  did  not  come  with  the  intention  of  danc- 
ing said  the  Bonne.  It  was  not  that  the  good  lady  disapproved 
of  the  young  stranger ; on  the  contrary,  she  thought  he  was  a very 
eligible  partner  for  their  favorite  Gabrielle  ; but  it  was  simply  from 
her  habit  of  officiously  settling  the  affairs  of  others,  that  led  her  to  say 
this. 

But  Gabrielle,  accustomed  by  indulgence  to  decide  for  herself,  said 
simply  : — “ I did  not  intend  to  dance  ; but  I think  I should  like  to 
dance  now,  if  you  do  not  object,  mon  pere?” 

“ I object?”  Certainly  not,  my  dear.  Go,  and  have  a dance,  my 
child  ; I am  glad  you  have  changed  your  mind.  Go,  Gentille-et-sage, 
and  dance  with  monsieur  ; what  can  be  more  natural  than  for  young 
people  to  enjoy  dancing?” 

Gerard  and  Gabrielle  amply  confirmed  the  truth  of  the  old  gentle- 
man’s concluding  proposition  ; for  they  joined  with  untiring  spirit  in 
all  the  successive  dances  that  took  place  on  the  green-sward  that  day. 
It  seemed  to  be  the  mode  here  that  there  should  be  no  restriction  in 
the  matter  of  changing  or  retaining  partners  ; each  couple  seemed  to  be 


186 


HELENA : 


at  full  liberty  to  form  new  selections,  or  to  remain  constant  to  their 
original  choice.  Gerard  availed  himself  of  this  license,  by  keeping  ex- 
clusive possession  of  the  hand  of  4 Gentille-et-sage nor  did  she  seem 
averse  from  the  arrangement.  Hour  after  hour  passed  gaily  away,  un- 
heeded by  either. 

In  the  afternoon,  Monsieur  le  Cure  asked  Gerard  to  bring  his  part- 
ner to  his  house  hard  by,  where  he  said  a humble  entertainment  awaited 
them.  The  old  man  politely  included  in  the  invitation  the  gentleman 
whom  he  understood  had  accompanied  Gerard  from  town.  But  the 
chevalier  de  Yaumond  wTas  deeply  engaged  in  a game  of  aominoes ; and 
protesting  he  had  already  dined  sumptuously  with  his  excellent  new 
acquaintance  (the  clown  with  whom  he  was  now  playing),  bade  Gerard 
not  trouble  himself  farther  about  him,  but  hasten  to  attend  his  fair  part- 
ner, as  they  had  both  evidently  discovered  congenial  friends  and  pur- 
suits. Gerard  did  not  altogether  like  the  tone  in  which  this  was  said ; 
but  the  thought  was  soon  banished  from  his  mind,  when  he  rejoined  the 
Cure,  Gabrielle,  and  the  Bonne. 

A cheerful  apartment  opening  into  a garden,  where  roses,  pinks, 
pot-herbs,  gilliflowers,  myrtles,  cabbages,  oleanders,  fig-trees,  geraniums, 
orange-trees,  honeysuckle,  cherries,  sweet-briar,  apples,  lettuces,  lilies, 
mulberry-trees,  vines,  and  carnations  flourished  in  amicable  confusion 
together,  mingling  their  blended  scents  in  one  delicious  combination  of 
fragrance  to  greet  the  senses  of  the  diners  ; a neatly-spread  table,  a 
kindly  host,  a sweet-voiced  woman,  happy  spirits,  gay  looks,  mirthful 
conversation,  all  contributed  to  render  the  repast  one  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite Gerard  had  ever  tasted. 

A vision  of  some  of  the  grand  banquets  given  by  his  father  to  divers 
of  his  wealthy  connections, — banquets  where  every  species  of  costly 
delicacy,  and  rare  wine,  and  massive  plate  had  laden  the  board,  which 
was  surrounded  only  by  corpulent  Millionaires  and  rubicund  Rentiers 
and  dull  Douairieres, — came  over  Gerard  with  a sense  of  suffocation,  as 
the  contrast  forced  itself  upon  him  passingly  ; the  contrast  which  such 
gorgeous  feasts  formed  with  the  simple  meal  before  him. 

Another  merit  presented  by  the  simple  lightness  of  the  meal  of 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


187 


which  they  had  just  partaken,  was,  that  it  offered  no  impediment  to  the 
resumption  of  dancing  as  soon  as  they  pleased. 

The  old  Cure  accordingly  proposed  their  adjournment  forthwith  to 
the  village-green ; leaving  the  Bonne  to  superintend  those  household 
matters  which  might  require  re-arrangement  after  the  important  meal  of 
the  day.  Nor  was  it  perceptible  that  her  secession  caused  any  diminu- 
tion of  comfort  to  the  party. 

More  dances  were  enjoyed  together  ; more  hours  sped  unheeded 
away.  But  when  the  sloping  rays  of  the  sun  slanted  so  low  and  so 
level  with  the  earth,  that  Gentille-et-sage  could  no  longer  disregard  their 
warning  of  passing  time,  she  said,  “ I must  return.  It  is  evening  ; and 
I must  go  home.” 

There  was  just  enough  of  regret,  in  the  sweet  cadence  of  her  voice, 
as  Gabrielle  uttered  these  few  words,  to  console  Gerard  for  their  import. 
He  yielded  to  the  motion  with  which  she  turned  in  the  direction  where 
they  had  left  the  old  man  seated,  that  she  might  bid  the  Cure  farewell, 
but  he  availed  himself  of  the  usage,  which  permitted  him,  as  her  partner, 
to  keep  her  hand  in  his. 

“You  are  going,  my  child,”  said  the  Cure,  as  they  approached,  and 
ghe  took  her  leave  of  him.  “Well,  you  are  right ; your  father  will  be 
expecting  you.  I must  not  detain  you.  But  how  wrong  this  is  of 
Petit  Pierre,  not  to  be  here  ready  to  go  back  with  you  !” 

“ I am  not  afraid  to  go  home  alone,  mon  pere,  you  know  I do  it 
often,  when  I come  over  to  see  you,”  said  she. 

“ I hope  Mademoiselle  Gabrielle  will  allow  me  the  pleasure  of  being 
her  companion,  as  Monsieur  Petit  Pierre  has  not  thought  fit  to  make 
his  appearance ;”  said  Gerard. 

“ W ell,  if  you  are  not  unwilling  to  go  so  far  out  of  your  way,  mon 
bon  Monsieur  Gerard,”  said  the  old  Cure,  “ that  will  be  a very  good 
plan.  The  farm  does  certainly  lie  a little  round  about ; somewhat  off 
the  straight  road  to  Perpignan,  but  to  young  legs  like  yours  I dare  say 
that  won’t  much  matter,  even  after  a day’s  dancing.  Besides,  perhaps 
you  may  meet  Petit  Pierre  on  the  road,  you  know,  and  then  he  can 
save  Monsieur  the  trouble,  can’t  he,  Gentille  et-sage  ? If  he  should 


1 88  HELENA  J 

make  his  appearance  soon,  I will  be  sure  and  hasten  him  after  you, 
my  dear.” 

The  old  Cure  said  all  this  with  so  much  simplicity  and  unconscious 
good  faith,  that  it  seemed  a pity  to  offer  any  new  view  of  th&  affair  ; and 
Gerard  forbore  to  explain  that  he  regarded  the  circumstance  of  Monsieur 
Petit  Pierre’s  defection  as  peculiarly  fortunate.  Contenting  himself, 
therefore,  with  taking  a cordial  leave  of  the  good  old  man,  thanking  him 
for  the  share  he  had  had  in  making  his  holiday  one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful he  had  ever  spent,  and  expressing  a hope  that  he  would  permit  him 
to  come  and  renew  his  acquaintance  ere  long,  they  parted  ; the  venerable 
Cure  returning  to  his  own  house,  Gerard  and  Gabrielle  taking  the  direc- 
tion of  the  wood,  through  which  the  young  man  had  passed  just  before 
coming  upon  the  scene  of  the  village  festival  that  morning. 

u I do  not  repeat  what  I said  about  not  being  afraid  of  going  home 
alone,  because  it  will  be  as  if  I asked  you  to  assure  me  that  you  think 
it  a pleasure,  and  no  trouble,  to  go  out  of  your  way said  Gentille-et- 
sage  ; u so  I will  only  thank  you  for  your  good  company.” 

“ If  you  wish  to  be  very  generous  in  your  thanks,  tell  me  that  you 
prefer  it  to  your  own  ;”  he  replied. 

“ I prefer  it  even  to  Petit  Pierre’s  said  she  archly. 
u And  pray  how  came  this  Monsieur  Petit  Pierre  to  indulge  us  with 
his  absence,  by  leaving  you  so  unceremoniously  to  find  a substitute  for 
his  doughty  escort  ?”  asked  Gerard. 

“ I lost  sight  of  him  almost  directly  after  we  arrived  here,  this  morn- 
ing answered  Gabrielle  ; “ he  seemed  to  think  he  had  fulfilled  my 
father’s  wish  when  he  had  seen  me  to  Monsieur  le  Cure’s  side,  and  that 
he  was  thenceforth  at  liberty  to  follow  his  own  devices  for  the  rest  of 
the  day.  As  indeed  he  was,  for  no  compact  had  been  made  that  he 
should  abide  by  me,  or  return  for  me  ; and  he  well  knows  that  I am  in 
the  constant  habit  of  going  backwards  and  forwards  by  myself  between 
our  farm  and  the  village.” 

il  Well,  whatever  may  have  been  the  seductive  Mat  de  cocagne,  or 
other  entertainment  which  may  have  proved  the  irresistible  cause  of 
Monsieur  Petit  Pierre’s  truancy,  I confess  myself  beholden  to  it;” 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


189 


said  Gerard.  u But,”  added  he,  u I suppose  it  is  the  society  of  that 
kind  and  pleasant  old  man  which  brings  you  over  so  frequently  to  the 
village.  Monsieur  le  Cure  seems  to  be  worthy  of  all  esteem  and 
affection.” 

u He  is  indeed  !”  said  Gabrielle  warmly.  u You  should  see  him  as  I 
have  done,  praying  by  the  side  of  the  sick  and  dying,  cheering,  comfort- 
ing, sustaining  them.  You  should  hear  his  holy  words,  and  witness  his 
own  virtuous  life  which  brings  example  as  well  as  precept  to  the  couch 
of  the  sufferer.  You  should  know  how  he  quits  his  snug  hearth,  his 
cherished  study,  his  own  bed,  at  all  hours,  and  at  all  seasons,  not  only 
unrepiningly  but  with  kindly  eagerness.  You  should  know  how  he  lives 
scantily,  and  denies  himself  the  luxury  of  books — a far  harder  frugality 
to  him — that  he  may  the  better  spare  the  assistance  which  is  never  with- 
held when  needed  by  his  poor  neighbours.  His  charity  is  of  the  purest 
kind — for  he  is  generous  of  his  gifts,  of  his  time,  of  his  help,  bestowed 
ungrudgingly  from  his  own  store.  And  his  mind  is  as  large  as  his  heart ; 
for  though  he  is  singularly  simple-mannered  and  modest,  he  is  very  sen- 
sible, has  read  much,  and  has  a fine  memory.” 

“ And  he  has  doubtless  afforded  you  some  of  the  advantages  of  this 
love  of  study  of  his said  Gerard.  “ It  is  as  his  pupil,  and  to  read  with 
him,  I suppose,  that  you  so  frequently  come  over  here  from  your  own 
home.” 

“ Y es,  he  is  most  kind  to  me  ; I love  him  dearly  ; we  are  very  happy 
together  ; and  my  father,  whose  happiness  it  is  to  see  his  Gabrielle  happy, 
lets  me  be  with  Monsieur  le  Cure  as  often  as  we  both  please.  So  I have 
spent  much  of  my  time  in  that  pleasant  little  parlour  of  his,  at  his  side, 
reading  to  him,  and  hearing  him  talk.  For  when  we  come  to  any  pas- 
sage that  reminds  Monsieur  le  Cure  of  something  that  he  has  read  in 
some  other  book,  he  tells  me  about  it,  or  even  repeats  it  to  me.  He  has 
an  excellent  memory,  as  I told  you,  which  is  very  fortunate  ; since  his 
charitable  heart  prevents  his  buying  as  many  books  as  he  could  wish, 
he  has  luckily,  in  this  way,  a sort  of  extra  shelf  of  them  in  his  head.” 

Gentille-et-sage  continued  to  chat  on  thus,  so  gaily  and  so  easily, 
that  Gerard,  who  was  at  home  accounted  a somewhat  shy  and  reserved 


190 


HELENA  ; 


youth,  became,  with  this  young  girl,  whom  he  had  known  only  a few 
hours,  equally  communicative  with  herself. 

He  found  himself  telling  her  freely,  with  the  happy  egoism  induced 
by  cordial  companionship,  of  his  mother,  whose  partiality  knew  no 
bounds  ; of  his  father,  whose  affection  showed  itself  in  a stricter  exer- 
cise of  authority,  which  perhaps  only  by  contrast  with  her  maternal 
fondness  seemed  like  controul ; of  his  enthusiasm  for  his  profession,  and 
of  his  hopes  of  one  day  attaining  skill  and  eminence  in  its  pursuit. 

A more  exquisite  flattery  can  hardly  be  administered  to  self-love,  or 
one  that  better  excuses  the  weakness  it  appeals  to  and  elicits,  than  the 
sympathy  of  such  a companion  as  Gabrielle  ; it  at  once  calls  forth,  and 
rewards  the  candour  of  revelation.  Under  such  influence,  a sensitive 
heart  yields  its  hoarded  treasures  of  feeling,  and  is  at  once  happy  in  its 
new  freedom,  and  grateful  towards  its  liberator. 

Gerard  felt  this  gratitude  towards  Gabrielle.  The  encouragement 
afforded  by  the  intelligence,  interest,  and  response  he  read  in  every  look 
of  hers  ; the  simple  ease  of  her  manners  which  set  him  at  equal  ease ; 
the  friendly  tone  thus  at  once  assumed  between  them  ; all  made  him 
feel  more  at  home,  more  familiar,  more  allied,  as  it  were,  with  this  re- 
cent acquaintance,  than  he  had  ever  felt  with  any  human  being. 

An  incident  occurred  that  tended  to  heighten  this  sense  of  fami- 
liarity. The  day  had  been  sultry  ; the  sky  now  became  suddenly  over- 
cast ; the  gloom  was  more  than  the  mere  closing  in  of  evening ; clouds 
gathered,  a few  large  drops  fell,  then  more,  and  faster,  and  soon  a heavy 
shower  pelted  down  with  such  violence,  that  the  thick  leaves  above  were 
insufficient  to  protect  Gabrielle  from  the  rain.  Gerard  perceived  at  a 
little  distance  an  oak  tree,  the  trunk  of  which  was  so  time-worn  and 
hollow,  as  to  admit  of  Gabrielle’s  ensconcing  herself  within.  They 
hastened  towards  the  spot,  and  as  she  crept  into  the  rugged  bole,  he 
laughingly  admired  her  Dryad’s  nook,  and  congratulated  her  on  the 
perfect  shelter  it  afforded  from  the  wet. 

u It  is  dry  certainly,”  said  she,  “ and  yet  I can’t  allow  it  to  be  a per- 
fect shelter,  since  it  is  not  large  enough  to  hold  us  both.  Dryads,  I 
believe,  were  reputed  beneficent,  and  the  least  the  sylvan  goddess  could 


THE  PHYSICIANrS  ORPHAN. 


191 

do,  would  be  to  share  with  an  unhappy  mortal  the  protection  her  tree 
affords  ; whereas  I am  snugly  and  selfishly  screened,  and  you  are  get- 
ting wet  through.” 

They  chatted  on  about  Dryads,  woodland  deities,  sylvan  haunts, 
poets  and  their  poetical  fancies,  and  a thousand  pleasant  subjects,  which 
served  to  show  that  this  peasant  girl  had  profited  by  her  reading  with 
the  old  O^re,  in  laying  up  a store  of  beautiful  and  gracious  ideas,  and 
in  obtaining  a glimpse  of  something  beyond  the  usual  education  of  a 
farmer’s  daughter. 

It  was  an  odd  combination — this  fact  of  birth,  and  this  accident 
of  instruction — but  it  was  a pleasant  one ; for  the  country  maiden  was 
so  natural,  so  unconscious,  so  merely  valuing  the  acquirement  for  its 
own  sake,  for  the  pleasure  it  afforded  her,  and  the  opportunity  it  gave 
her  of  being  with  her  old  friend  the  Cure,  that  it  did  not  injure  her 
character.  Gabrielle  was  a being,  inartificial  and  graceful,  as  she  was 
singular. 

The  shower  was  persevering.  Half  an  hour,  an  hour,  two  hours 
elapsed,  almost  unconsciously ; although  Gabrielle  proposed  several 
times,  issuing  from  her  .nook,  and  facing  the  wet,  saying  that  it  was  not 
very  far  now  from  the  farm,  and  that  it  would  be  better  to  hurry  thither 
at  once,  as  the  rain  might  last  for  some  time.  But  Gerard  was  so  urgent 
in  protesting  that  now  it  was  going  to  give  over  very  shortly,  and  now  it 
was  much  lighter  in  the  wind,  and  now  he  was  sure  that  if  they  waited 
ten  minutes  longer,  they  might  go  in  perfect  security,  that  Gabrielle 
gave  way,  and  remained  within  the  hollow  tree. 

The  shower  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come  on  ; but  when  at 
length  she  was  able  to  emerge  from  shelter,  G-abrielle  found  that  a 
much  longer  time  had  elapsed  than  she  had  been  at  all  aware  of,  while 
chatting  away,  screened  within  the  recesses  of  the  oak.  She  hastened 
on,  and  expressed  some  anxiety  lest  her  father  . might  be  uneasy  at  her 
late  return.  As  long  as  they  remained  within  the  wood,  Gabrielle  flat- 
tered herself  that  it  was  the  shadow  of  the  trees  that  made  it  seem  so 
dark ; but  when  they  reached  the  open  fields  beyond,  she  could  no 
longer  help  seeing  that  evening  had  quite  closed  in. 


192 


HELENA  I 


“ I hope  my  father  will  have  fancied  that  I am  staying  all  night  at 
Monsieur  le  Cure’s ;”  she  said,  half  to  pacify  her  own  thought,  half 
aloud  to  Gerard.  “ Then  he  will  have  no  anxiety  about  my  safety.” 

Half  a mile  more  brought  them  to  a lane,  close,  and  bowery,  and 
shut  in  by  thick  hedgerows  on  each  side.  Some  trees  grew  overarch- 
ingly  above,  so  that  little  of  the  sky  could  be  seen ; but  here  and  there 
a star  twinkled  through  the  branches,  and  Gabrielle,  perceiving  that 
Gerard’s  pace  was  less  assured,  as  he  followed  this  darkened  and  un- 
known track,  withdrew  her  arm  from  his,  and  taking  him  by  the  hand, 
led  him  onwards.  He  could  hear  her  laughing  melodious  voice,  as  she 
paced  quickly  along  this  accustomed  path,  and  spoke  in  gay,  assured, 
home-returning  tones. 

Presently  she  stopped  at  a little  door,  which  seemed  to  be  made  in 
a garden-wall.  Gerard  could  hear  her  unlock  it ; and  then  she  turned 
again  to  him,  and  said : — “ Give  me  your  hand  again  ; you  will  not  be 
able  to  find  your  way  here,  unless  I lead  you.  Now  stoop  your  head; 
you  are  tall,  and  the  doorway  is  low.” 

Gerard  could  hear  the  rustle  of  the  branches,  and  indistinctly  see 
them  laden  with  fruit,  as  Gabrielle  held  back  the  dripping  boughs  of 
some  cherry  and  summer-apple  trees,  that  overhung  the  narrow  path, 
and  besprinkled  them  profusely  as  they  passed  beneath. 

“ This  is  almost  as  bad  as  the  shower  in  the  wood ; but  you  are 
already  wet  through,  and  a few  additional  drops  won’t  signify.  I shall 
soon  be  able  to  have  your  coat  properly  dried ;”  said  the  pleasant  voice. 
a 0,  take  care  of  that  walnut  bough — and  these  rose-bushes — round  this 
way;  now  stoop  again,  under  this  honeysuckle  arch;  there,  now  up  a 
few  steps,  and  here  are  we !” 

Another  door  was  pushed  open;  they  entered,  and  Gerard  found 
himself  beneath  a roof  of  some  sort,  but  he  could  see  nothing ; until 
presently,  his  conductress  quitting  hold  of  his  hand,  he  heard  a little 
gentle  bustling  to  and  fro, — a light  foot, — a closet  opened,  and  then 
came  the  sound  of  a flint  and  steel  struck  smartly ; a spark  fell  upon 
the  tinder,  a flickering  vision  emerged  from  the  gloom,  of  a face,  irradi- 
ated by  smiles  no  less  than  by  the  nascent  glow,  as  the  lips  closed  in  a 


THE  PHYSICIAN7S  ORPHAN. 


193 


rosy  circle,  puffing  gently  and  coaxingly  upon  the  spreading  light ; a 
match  was  kindled,  and  held  towards  the  taper,  the  flame  sprang  up,  and 
a pleasant  voice  exclaimed  gleefully  as  a child  might  have  done : — u That’s 
it !”  and  then  gradually,  the  eyes  of  Gerard  accustoming  themselves  to 
the  light,  after  the  recent  obscurity,  informed  him  that  he  was  in  a 
moderate-sized  apartment,  strewed  with  different  articles  that  bespoke 
womanly  occupation.  A few  books,  some  pencils,  a work-basket,  pens 
and  ink,  an  embroidery  frame,  a garden-rake,  a knitting-box,  a portfolio, 
and  some  half-finished  needle-work  lay  in  that  sort  of  neat  negligence, 
graceful  litter,  that  is  found  only  in  a young  girl’s  own  sitting-room. 

Before  he  had  time  to  do  more  than  glance  round  at  the  place  in 
which  he  found  himself,  Gabrielle  had  laid  her  hand  upon  the  sleeve  of 
his  soaked  doublet ; and  begging  him  to  take  it  off,  she  stepped  into  an 
inner  room,  unhooked  from  a peg  a thick  cloak  which  hung  there,  and 
brought  it  him,  to  put  on,  while  she  took  his  wet  garment  to  be  dried. 

u Give  it  me,”  she  said  in  her  easy  manner,  “ that  I may  take  it  to 
the  kitchen-fire  of  the  farm.  The  embers  are  still  hot,  I dare  say.  I 
will  not  be  gone  long,  but  I must  just  step  over,  for  I am  longing  to  see 
my  father,  and  tell  him  I am  come  back.  You  will  forgive  me,  I know. 
I will  be  back  in  five  minutes.”  So  saying,  she  glided  out  of  the  door 
by  which  she  had  entered ; and  Gerard  remained  alone. 

He  had  now  leisure  to  examine  the  spot  where  he  was.  It  seemed 
to  be  a sort  of  summer-house,  or  pavilion,  such  as  is  frequently  found, 
built  out  in  the  garden,  away  from ‘the  house,  in  many  parts  of  France. 
It  comprised  two  apartments ; for,  beyond  the  one  where  Gerard  was, 
he  could  see  another  room.  They  opened  from  one  to  the  other  by  a 
small  door,  which  had  been  left  ajar  by  Gabrielle,  when  she  had  gone  in 
to  fetch  the  cloak.  The  glimpse  afforded  through  this  half-open  door 
showed,  by  the  white  hangings  which  neatly  draped  an  alcove  opposite, 
that  this  inner  one  formed  a bed-chamber  ; while  the  single  snowy  pillow 
and  general  air  of  tasteful  simplicity  that  reigned  around,  proclaimed 
it  to  be  Gabrielle’s  own  sleeping-room,  as  incontestably  as  the  scattered 
work,  and  other  feminine  confusion,  bespoke  the  one  in  which  he  sat  to 
be  her  sitting-room. 


194 


HELENA  I 


He  could  scarcely  forbear  laughing  at  his  whimsical  situation,  and  at 
the  still  more  whimsical  figure  he  cut,  as  he  caught  a glimpse  of  himself 
in  a looking-glass  which  hung  near.  His  youthful  head,  with  its  thick 
hair  and  coming  moustache,  peered  above  the  folds  of  a woman’s  cloak. 
It  was  the  dark  woollen  one,  fastened  with  a silver  clasp,  worn  by 
Gabrielle,  in  common  with  Frenchwomen  of  her  class,  in  winter ; and 
seemed  as  if  only  a snowy  cap,  or  other  feminine  head-gear  could  crown 
it  appropriately.  He  thought,  too,  of  the  unexpected  train  of  circum- 
stances which  had  grown  out  of  his  walk  that  morning.  Here  he  was  in 
a strange  place,  awaiting  one,  who,  until  that  day,  had  been  a stranger 
to  him,  but  who,  henceforth,  was  to  be  intimately  blended  with  his  every 
thought.  He  instinctively  felt  this,  though  it  did  not  present  itself  in 
so  palpable  a form  to  his  mind. 

Gerard’s  nature,  unconsciously  to  himself,  now  for  the  first  time  m 
his  life  met  its  kindred  spirit.  Hitherto  he  had  dwelt  only  with  dispo- 
sitions uncongenial  with  his  own  ; for  although  his  filial  reverence  taught 
him  to  construe  his  mother’s  weak  passiveness  into  gentleness,  and  his 
father’s  domineering  selfishness  into  paternal  guidance,  yet  the  real  tem- 
perament of  his  parents,  had,  till  now,  been  the  unfavorable  social 
atmosphere  in  which  the  glow  of  his  own  feelings  had  been  repressed 
and  sut  lued.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  check  and  stifle  warmth  of 
expression  as  something  unsuited  to  the  chilling  damp  that  pervaded  the 
home  circle ; but  now  he  had  met  with  one,  who  at  once  made  him  feel 
unconstrained,  unreserved,  elate,  happy. 

Gabrielle’s  manner  was  so  peculiarly  unreserved,  so  full  of  that  frank 
yet  modest  ease  which  sometimes  belongs  to  youth  brought  up  with 
indulgence,  that  it  inspired  ease  in  him  ; the  young  girl’s  simple  un- 
embarrassed demeanour  placed  him  at  once  on  terms  of  intimacy  ; her 
tone  of  sympathy  and  intelligence  won  his  regard  and  confidence,  and 
the  whole  impression  produced  upon  his  feelings,  was  that  one  of  repose, 
of  content,  of  comfort,  of  serene  joy  which  belongs  to  a tried  and 
valued  friendship.  In  this  playful  ease,  this  modest  yet  assured  manner 
of  the  young  country  girl,  which  awakened  such  welcome  novelty  of 
happy  feeling  in  Gerard’s  heart,  lay  the  secret  of  her  charm  for  him : 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


195 


but  as  yet  he  knew  it  not ; he  was  content  to  yield  himself  implicitly  to 
the  unanalysed  pleasure  he  felt ; to  the  joy  of  haying  discovered  such 
a being ; to  the  happiness  of  her  presence,  her  intercourse,  herself. 

He  sat  there,  indulging  this  kind  of  waking-dream — for  it  was  rather 
with  the  shadows  and  voluptuous  impresses  of  thought,  than  with  the 
thoughts  themselves  that  his  fancy  was  luxuriating, — until  tha  light 
footsteps  of  Gabrielle  announced  her  return. 

u It  was  as  I hoped she  exclaimed  as  she  entered.  “ My  father 
had  not  been  uneasy,  concluding  I staid  at  Monsieur  le  Cure’s,  all  night, 
on  account  of  the  shower.  So  I found  him  snug  in  bed  ; where  I would 
have  had  him  remain  quietly ; but  when  he  heard  that  Monsieur  had  been 
so  good  as  to  see  his  child  safe  home,  he  would  needs  get  up  and  thank 
him.  So  I am  come  to  fetch  you  to  the  farm,  to  my  father.  It  is  only 
at  the  other  end  of  the  garden.  This  is  the  old  pavilion,  which  my 
father  has  had  fitted  up,  and  lets  me  have  for  my  own  little  homestead. 
0,  he  is  very  indulgent  to  his  Gabrielle — my  kind  old  father  ! Everybody 
says  he  spoils  her.  He  lets  her  have  her  own  whims  and  fancies — her 
own  way  in  every  thing — and  that’s  so  pleasant !” 

The  moon  had  risen  now ; and  as  they  once  more  crossed  the  garden, 
her  broad  mild  light  shone  clear  upon  flower,  shrub,  and  fruit-tree,  ren- 
dering needless  the  friendly  guiding  hand  which  had  before  led  Gerard 
along  the  path. 

He  was  in  thought  half  regretting  it,  when  Gabrielle  said : — “ You 
need  no  leading  now,  which  is  fortunate,  or  you  might  have  had  some 
difficulty  in  finding  your  way  back  to  Perpignan ; but  you  can  scarcely 
miss  it,  in  this  clear  moonshine,  and  the  way  is  not  intricate ; if  you 
follow  the  lane  that  bends  a little  to  the  right,  leaving  the  wood  on  your 
left  hand,  when  you  have  passed  the  field  or  two  beyond,  the  road  is 
nearly  straight  to  the  town.” 

In  the  kitchen  of  the  farm,  they  found  the  old  farmer,  hospitably 
intent  on  spreading  a table-cloth,  and  preparing  some  homely  refresh- 
ment, to  which  he  invited  his  guest  in  unceremonious  but  hearty  terms. 
He  thanked  him  for  bringing  home  his  child  in  safety,  in  the  same 
manner ; and  all  his  speech  betokened  the  rough  honest  farmer.  He 


196 


HELENA  J 


spoke  a broad  country  dialect,  a strong  patois,  but  his  words  were  kindly, 
though  homely.  He  was  as  utterly  devoid  of  polish  or  refinement,  as 
his  daughter  was  singularly  graceful  and  superior  in  air  and  knowledge 
to  her  station  ; though  the  one  was  no  less  natural  than  the  other.  But 
she  was  simple,  he  was  plain ; she  was  innocent,  he  was  ignorant ; she 
was  candid,  he  was  blunt ; she  was  intelligent,  and  had  learned  the  hap* 
piness  of  reading,  he  was  unlettered,  and  cared  for  no  knowledge  be- 
yond the  culture  of  his  fields,  and  the  superintendence  of  his  farm.  He 
was  the  mere  rustic,  she  was  the  modest  country-maid.  The  contrast 
was  almost  as  great  between  this  farmer  and  this  farmer’s  daughter,  as 
if  the  one  had  been  a duchess  and  the  other  a cobbler ; but  there  were 
some  points  in  common  between  these  two.  Both  father  and  child  were 
perfectly  free  from  assumption  of  all  sorts  ; equally  artless,  equally  un- 
affected, equally  sincere,  and  equally  steady  in  affection  for  each  other. 

By  the  time  the  hasty  supper  had  been  discussed,  Gerard’s  doublet 
was  thoroughly  dry  ; as  he  resumed  it,  and  prepared  to  depart,  resigning 
Gabrielle’s  cloak  which  had  wrapped  him  so  comfortably  in  his  need, 
many  smiling  words  were  exchanged  between  them  all,  of  the  help,  and 
the  shelter,  and  the  kindness  that  had  been  mutually  interchanged  that 
d?ty. 

Gabrielle’s  father  thanked  the  u bon  jeune  homme”  for  his  care  of 
his  daughter ; she  thanked  Gerard  again  for  his  “ good  company and 
he  thanked  them  both  for  their  care,  their  good  company,  and  their  hos- 
pitable kindness ; but  in  his  heart  were  myriads  of  thanks  that  eould 
find  no  utterance  towards  her  who  had  that  day  shed  so  sudden  a flood 
of  light  upon  his  existence.  Often  thus,  lies  profound  gratitude,  con- 
cealed beneath  light  laughing  words  of  courtesy — the  bashful  subterfuge 
of  a generous  hypocrisy,  that  feigns  less  than  it  feels. 

These  unexpressed  emotions  served  to  bear  him  joyful  company  back 
to  Perpignan  that  night ; the  way  imperceptibly  melted  before  him,  as 
he  indulged  the  thought  of  how  soon  he  hoped  to  retrace  it ; no  idea  of 
the  lateness  of  the  hour  occurred  to  him,  till  he  beheld  the  indignant, 
drowsy  face  of  the  cross  old  porteress,  who  let  him  in  when  he  reached 
his  father’s  porte-cochere. 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


197 


u These  young  people  !”  he  heard  her  mutter ; “ little  they  think  of 
us  old  ones  at  home  ! Fine  times  ! Fine  hours  ! Fine  goings-on  !” 

He  whispered  some  playful  words,  deprecatory  of  the  ancient  Cer- 
beria’s  wrath ; but  the  next  morning  he  had  to  encounter  the  far  more 
important  displeasure  of  his  father. 

He  met  him  for  a few  moments,  just  as  Monsieur  Gerard  was  issuing 
forth,  ready  hatted  and  gloved,  to  proceed  to  the  Banking-house,  which 
was  at  a short  distance  from  his  residence. 

“ You  are  late  down  to  breakfast  this  morning,  Gerard  ; no  wonder, 
if  you  keep  such  late  hours  over-night.  I hear  it  was  much  past  mid- 
night before  you  returned  home.  This  does  not  encourage  me  to  give 
you  a holiday  again,  in  a hurry.  De  Y aumond  is  a young  man  of  high 
birth  and  connections,  therefore  I approve  of  your  intimacy  with  him; 
but  you  must  not  allow  his  love  of  the  gaming-table  to  make  you  forget 
your  proper  hours  for  returning  home  at  night.  It  is  not  the  few  paltry 
6cus  you  might  lose,  that  I mind, — a lad  of  spirit,  with  a rich  father, 
can  afford  to  spend  his  money  as  freely  as  a young  nobleman,  but  I do 
not  choose  to  have  my  family  hours  altered.” 

“ I met  de  Yaumond,  it  is  true,  sir,”  answered  the  son,  “but ” 

“ There,  let  us  have  no  more  words  about  it,  my  boy,”  interrupted 
Monsieur  Gerard.  “ I choose  you  to  be  home  before  midnight,  do  you 
hear?  That’s  my  will.  Let  it  be  observed.  No  more  words,  if  you 
please.” 

The  banker  stalked  away ; and  Gerard  went  to  his  College ; but  that 
day,  his  study  was,  for  the  most  part,  how  he  might  best  contrive  time 
for  another  visit  to  the  farm. 

And  another  and  another  visit  did  he  contrive.  Monsieur  Gerard  had 
no  more  occasion  to  complain  of  late  hours,  either  over-night,  or  at  the 
breakfast-table.  Punctually  at  nine  o’clock,  the  established  hour  for  the 
family  to  assemble  at  the  morning  meal,  Gerard  made  his  appearance, 
looking  animated,  happy,  and  with  a glow  in  his  cheeks,  that  bespoke 
early  air  and  exercise  His  parents  remarked  upon  it  with  pleasure, 
each  after  their  peculiar  fashion.  His  mother  observed,  “ she  was  glad 
to  find  he  had  minded  what  his  father  said  about  late  hours.  Getting 


198 


HELENA ! 


up  early,  and  taking  a walk,  always  made  the  cheeks  blooming ; and  Ge- 
rard’s were  absolutely  like  a rose.” 

His  father,  who  was  fond  of  taking  his  own  views  of  the  matter,  and 
assuming  them  as  established  facts,  believed  that  his  son  was  eager  in 
the  pursuit  of  herbal  botany,  and  had  chosen  these  early  hours  for  his 
rambles,  that  he  might  not  interfere  with  time  devoted  to  other  branches 
of  medical  study. 

Besides,  he  had  signified  his  desire  that  early  hours  should  be  ob- 
served; and  Monsieur  Gerard  was  one  of  those  authoritative  persons 
who  consider  the  announcement  of  their  will  as  tantamount  to  its  exe- 
cution. 

“ The  boy  is  quite  right,  Helena  said  Monsieur  Gerard  in  reply 
to  his  wife’s  observation  touching  their  son’s  improved  looks.  “ He  acts 
in  conformity  with  the  advice  of  those  who  know  what’s  best  for  him  ; 
and  he  finds  his  account  in  it,  don’t  you,  Gerard,  my  boy?” 

“ I certainly  find  my  delight  in  these  early  walks,”  answered  he ; 
“for  I have  found ” 

“ 0 spare  us  the  description  of  every  weed  and  every  blade  of  grass 
you  may  have  discovered,  my  good  fellow  ;”  interrupted  Monsieur 
'Gerard.  “ They  are  all  rare  specimens,  I dare  say,  and  may  possess  the 
most  inestimable  virtues  of  the  combined  Pharmacopeia,  for  aught  I 
know;  but  Pm  content  to  take  your  word  for  it.  Helena,  my  dear, 
pass  me  that  pigeon-pie  ; I find  more  entertainment  in  exploring  its 
'Contents,  monsieur  le  docteur,  than  in  all  your  wild  flowers  that  ever 
were  distilled  to  cure  or  poison  mankind  !”  And  Monsieur  Gerard  ac- 
cordingly began  to  dig  into  the  bowels  of  the  pasty,  selecting  the  choicest 
morsels  for  his  own  plate,  in  his  own  important  style.  For  the  banker 
always  helped  himself,  as  if  fully  conscious  what  was  due  to  the  rich 
merchant,  goldsmith,  and  banker  of  Perpignan,  the  father  of  a family, 
and  the  master  of  his  own  house.  He  helped  himself  as  if  the  chief 
anxiety  of  all  present,  were  bound  up,  with  his  own,  in  the  fact  of  his 
securing  those  morsels  best  suited  to  his  palate  ; and  as  if  what  he 
might  reject  was  sure  to  be  good  enough  for  others.  Monsieur  Gerard, 
in  helping  himself  from  a dish,  always  gave  you  the  idea  that  those  por 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


199 


fcions  which  he  left,  became  scraps — orts — mere  refuse — unworthy  of  his 
notice — though  they  might  serve  for  those  who  came  after  him.  When 
he  partook  of  an  omelet  he  would  cut  the  browned  edges  off  with  so 
choice  a hand,  and  deposit  them  on  his  plate  with  so  nice  an  egoism  of 
discrimination  and  care,  that  the  middle  piece  which  remained  lay  there 
on  the  dish,  a mere  unpleasant  block  of  insipidity,  for  any  one  who  chose 
to  take  up  with  it ; but  had  he  preferred  the  less  done  section,  it  would 
have  been  just  the  same  ; for  then  the  solicitude  with  which  he  would 
have  lifted  out  the  centre  spoonful,  and  conveyed  it  with  a steady  hand, 
a watchful  eye,  and  suspended  breath,  to  its  destination  for  his  own 
peculiar  discussion,  would  have  converted  the  crisper  edges  into  cindry 
chips,  parings,  despised  remnants,  pushed  aside,  rejected  and  abandoned, 
for  any  one  that  chose  to  collect  them. 

The  confident  unmisgiving  air  with  which  all  this  epicurean  purvey- 
ancing  was  carried  on,  imparted  a solemnity  and  dignity  to  Monsieur 
'Gerard’s  eating,  and  Monsieur  Gerard’s  taste,  and  Monsieur  Gerard’s 
selection,  which  deprived  it  of  any  appearance  of  selfishness— at  least, 
neither  his  wife  nor  son  was  ever  struck  with  it  in  that  light ; for  they 
had  been  so  accustomed  to  see  him  sniff  at,  and  closely  inspect,  and 
pish-and-shaw  at  the  dishes,  and  to  hear  him  say  : — # I’ll  try  a bit  of 
this,  I think  or,  “ Let  me  see  if  I can  manage  one  of  these  ” — or, 
a Perhaps  I may  fancy  some  of  your  dish,  Helena,  my  dear,  send  it 
round  to  me that  they  had  come  to  consider  him  as  rather  an  ill-used 
gentleman  on  the  score  of  appetite,  and  one  whom  it  was  providential  if 
anything  could  be  found  to  tempt  and  coax  into  eating  at  all. 

In  small  matters,  as  well  as  in  great  ones,  Monsieur  Gerard  was  em- 
phatically ‘ master  in  his  own  house  and  he  liked  to  have  his  family 
think,  as  well  as  act,  according  to  his  sovereign  will  and  pleasure.  If 
he  pitied  and  patronised  his  own  appetite,  as  a poor  one,  and  one  that 
required  pampering  and  indulgence,  it  was  the  duty  of  those  around  him 
to  adopt  his  view  of  the  matter — which  they  implicitly  did.  Monsieur 
Gerard  had  hitherto  enjoyed  supreme  and  unquestioned  domestic  sway. 

His  son,  Gerard,  had  no  intention  of  concealing  the  real  object  of 
his  morning  excursions  from  his  parents ; on  the  contrary,  his  naturally 


200 


HELENA  I 


frank  temper  would  have  led  him  to  confide  to  them  the  new  source  of 
joy  he  possessed  in  the  discovery  of  Gabrielle ; he  would  have  described 
to  them  her  graces  of  simplicity,  candour,  and  intelligence ; he  would 
have  dwelt  with  delight  upon  the  charm  her  character  possessed  for  him, 
upon  the  feeling  of  amity  and  affectionate  interest  with  which  she  in- 
spired him ; but  the  manner  in  which  every  thing  had  been  taken  for 
granted,  and  the  total  absence  of  all  expressed  sympathy,  in  leading 
him  to  expatiate  upon  his  new-found  source  of  happiness,  chilled  and 
discouraged  him  into  silence.  This  had  ever  been  the  social  existence 
of  Gerard  ; till  of  an  open  disposition,  it  had  well-nigh  created  a re- 
served one. 

But  now,  whatever  might  be  the  lack  of  sympathy  in  his  home- 
circle,  none  was  wanting  to  make  his  hours  spent  at  the  farm  those  of 
unalloyed  happiness.  There,  he  was  always  received  with  the  same 
cordiality,  the  same  frank  ease,  the  same  friendly  intimacy  as  that 
which  had  marked  the  epoch  of  his  first  acquaintance  with  Gabrielle  and 
her  father. 

Calm  and  delicious  were  those  pure  summer  mornings  ! Secure 
that  however  early  might  be  the  hour  at  which  he  could  reach  the  farm, 
its  inhabitants  would  surely  be  stirring,  he  would  rise  from  his  bed  with 
the  dawn,  glide  through  the  silent  streets  of  the  town,  emerge  into  the 
open  country,  traverse  the  dewy  fields,  behold  the  rising  sun  in  his 
glory,  hail  the  face  of  gracious  Nature  in  her  fair  beaming  freshness, 
whilst  his  heart,  cheerful  and  devout,  offered  silent  homage  to  the 
Creator  of  all. 

Then  came  the  arrival ; the  welcome ; the  good-humoured  hearty 
farmer ; the  honest  labourers,  exchanging  a grinning  bon-jour,  for  the 
young  man’s  touch  of  the  hat,  or  slap  on  the  shoulder ; the  lowing  kine, 
with  their  fragrant  breath  steaming  forth  into  the  morning  air,  standing 
patiently  to  be  milked,  before  going  to  pasture ; the  busy  clamour  of 
poultry,  hurrying  to  be  fed  ; the  hum  of  bees  ] the  scent  of  hay  ; the 
clattering  of  milk-pans  ; the  rustle  of  straw  in  the  yard,  amongst  which 
routed  and  grunted,  in  swinish  luxury,  some  pigs,  with  their  upturned 
twinkling  eyes  ; the  creaking  and  flapping  of  huge  barn-doors,  disclosing 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


201 


glimpses  of  scattered  straw,  piled  logs,  trusses  of  hay,  grain,  and  high 
cross-rafters,  among  which  sparrows  flew  in  and  out,  perching  and  twit- 
tering ; the  neighing  of  sleek  plough-horses ; the  cheerful  barking  of 
dogs  ; the  swinging-to  of  gates  ; the  many  sights,  and  smells,  and  sounds 
that  make  a farm  so  pleasant  a spot  to  the  townsman,  all  greeted 
Gerard’s  senses  with  an  impression  of  delight  and  enjoyment. 

Then,  above  all,  came  the  meeting  her . She  would  come  hurrying 
out  from  the  porch,  all  smiles,  and  welcome,  and  beaming  cordiality, 
looking  by  far  the  most  fresh,  and  bright,  and  sunny  object  in  those 
fresh,  bright,  sunny  mornings.  And  then  they  would  loiter  about  the 
farm-yard  together,  watching  the  farmer  give  his  instructions  to  the  men, 
congratulating  him  upon  the  flourishing  condition  of  his  farm,  listening 
to  his  proposed  improvements,  giving  their  occasional  opinion,  an<! 
interesting  themselves  in  all  that  was  going  forward  without  doors 
Then  they  would  stroll  through  the  garden,  and  linger  near  the  bee- 
hives, and  debate  the  probability  of  an  approaching  swarm,  or  stay  and 
peep  at  some  sitting  mother-bird  who  had  built  her  nest  in  the  closf 
hedge  near  the  harbour ; or  note  the  growth  of  some  newly-set  favorite 
of  Gabrielle’s  planting ; or  watch  the  cool  green  shadows  play  and  rip 
pie  on  the  surface  of  the  small  pond,  while  they  idled  on  the  brink  side- 
by-side,  and  Gerard  saw  mirrored  in  the  cheeks  of  his  companion  the 
dimples  on  the  water,  in  her  eyes  its  liquid  brightness,  in  her  soul  its 
transparency,  its  clearness,  and  its  purity.  Then  came  half  an  hour  in 
the  pleasant  sitting-room  of  the  pavilion.  Gerard  would  here  give 
Gabrielle  the  book  or  print  he  generally  brought  for  her ; he  would 
hear  of  the  pleasure  she  had  had  in  reading  the  last ; or  of  something 
Monsieur  le  Cure  had  told  her,  when  reading  it  to  him  ; or  he  would 
look  at  the  progress  she  had  made,  since  the  morning  before,  in  her 
drawing,  and  would  perhaps  add  a touch  or  two,  and  suggest  a few 
more. 

But  however  pleasantly  the  time  might  speed,  Gerard  never  per- 
mitted himself  to  forget  its  lapse,  so  as  to  trench  upon  the  appointed 
hour  for  his  return.  He  told  Gabrielle  that  he  trusted  to  her  for  turn- 
ing him  out  of  doors  when  the  sun  should  have  reached  the  warning 


202 


HELENA ; 


height ; and  so,  when  its  rays  had  travelled  round  a certain  space  in  the 
chamber,  and,  resting  in  a certain  angle,  proclaimed  that  it  was  time  to 
depart,  the  pleasant  voice  said : — “ See  ! the  sun  beckons  you  to  be  go- 
ing— or  you  will  not  reach  home  in  time  to  welcome  your  mother  down- 
stairs, and  lead  her  to  the  breakfast-table.” 

Morning  after  morning  thus  passed  away,  in  scenes  so  peaceful,  in 
thoughts  so  tranquil,  in  intercourse  so  calm,  that  Gerard  had  no  sus- 
picion of  the  change  which  Lad  been  wrought  within  himself ; he  sur- 
mised not  that  this  blissful  sense  of  awakened  existence,  this  powerful 
impression  of  happiness  which  he  hugged  close  to  his  heart  a deeply- 
treasured  possession,  a newly-acquired  gift,  was  the  result  of  a complete 
revolution  which  had  taken  place  in  his  own  moral  being.  He  knew  not 
that  love  had  taken  possession  of  his  soul ; he  knew  not  that  love  it  was 
which  played  in  every  breeze,  which  lured  him  forth  to  find  fresh  beauties 
in  Nature  herself,  which  filled  his  heart  with  joy,  his  spirits  with  exulta- 
tion, and  which  lent  a new  zest  to  every  thought  and  every  act.  He 
knew  not  that  it  was  love  which  shed  its  radiance  upon  the  image  of 
Gabrielle,  and  which  fraught  every  idea  of  her  with  beauty  and  delight. 
He  believed  that  joys  so  pure  and  placid  as  those  he  savoured  during  the 
hours  of  morning,  could  originate  with  no  emotion  so  powerful  as  love  ; 
he  could  not  imagine  that  the  contentment  and  serenity  of  mutual  un- 
derstanding which  subsisted  between  himself  and  that  young  country 
maiden,  owed  its  existence  to  so  imperious  a feeling  as  love.  He  had 
heard  love  described  as  turbulent,  restless,  exacting  ; could  he  therefore 
suspect  that  uneasy  passion  to  have  aught  to  do  with  the  deep  and 
plenary  satisfaction  of  her  presence  ? 

But  though  unconscious  of  his  own  secret,  it  was  soon  to  be  dis- 
covered to  him  in  all  its  force,  by  means  less  pleasant,  though  no  less 
potent  than  the  promptings  of  his  happy  heart.  A word  of  slight 
towards  her  he  loved,  revealed  to  him  the  whole  strength  and  truth  of 
that  love. 

One  morning  on  his  return  from  the  farm  he  found  his  mother  in 
tears,  and  his  father  in  a towering  passion. 

His  entrance  was  the  signal  for  a torrent  of  reproaches. 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


203 


« 0 Gerard,  how  could  you  ?” — sobbed  his  mother. 

« Listen  to  me,  sirrah  said  his  father,  almost  inarticulate  with 
rage.  l'  I find  you  have  been  deceiving  me, — deceiving  me,  you  young 
mauvais  sujet  ! Know,  that  I happen  to  have  seen  the  chevalier  de 
Yaumond  ; that  I have  learned  from  him  your  idle  low  haunts,  and 
your  trumpery  companions.  Not  content  with  a vagabondizing  walk, 
and  loitering  about  with  boors  and  clowns,  but  you  must  needs  fall  to 
dancing  and  romping  with  the  peasant  wenches.” 

“ Fie,  Gerard  ! How  could  you  ?”  again  sobbed  his  mother. 
a I never  deceived  you,  sir  said  Gerard,  his  eyes  flashing  at  the 
accusation  of  duplicity,  and  still  more  at  the  opprobrious  terms  in  which 
allusion  had  been  made  to  his  acquaintance  with  Gabrielle.  “ I never 
sought  to  mislead  you  as  to  the  manner  in  which  I spent  that  day.  You 
yourself  assumed  that  I had  passed  it  wholly  with  de  Vaumond  ; and 
stopped  me  when  I would  have  explained  the  truth.” 

u The  truth,  boy,  the  truth  ! Don’t  tell  me  of  the  truth  ! I say 
you  have  not  told  me  the  truth  all  along ; for  I’ll  be  bound  that’s  not 
the  only  time  you  have  been  to  this  low  village.  De  Yaumond  told  me 
you  seemed  mightily  taken  with  one  of  these  wenches,  some  curate’s 
niece,  or  something  of  the  kind — and  I shouldn’t  wonder  if  you  have 
been  to  take  a peep  at  her  again  ! Your  morning  walks,  sirrah,  your 
morning  walks  ! Confess  that  they  were  to  this  same  village,  and  that 
your  botanizing  was  all  a pretence,  all  a sham !” 

“ I never  pretended  that  botany  was  my  motive  for  early  rising 
replied  Gerard.  “ Had  you  cared  to  know,  sir,  I should  have  told  you 
that  my  morning  walks  were  to  the  farm,  to  see  Gabrielle.” 

Gerard  had  spoken  firmly  though  respectfully ; but  his  voice  faltered 
a little,  as  he  concluded,  with  the  reluctance  natural  to  the  utterance  of 
a beloved  name  in  the  presence  of  those  we  know  to  be  prejudiced 
against  its  possessor ; besides,  he  was  just  beginning  to  discover  how 
dear  that  possessor  was  to  his  own  heart. 

There  was  something  in  the  young  man’s  manner  which  made  the  father 
pause,  and  consider  him  attentively.  There  was  an  air  of  manly  reso- 
lution taking  the  place  of  old  boyish  submission,  which  Monsieur  Gerard 


204 


HELENA  J 


had  never  before  observed  ; there  was  no  filial  deference  wanting  in  the 
tone,  but  it  was  mingled  with  an  earnestness  of  meaning,  a decision  of 
purpose  that  bespoke  the  existence  of  a strong  internal  motive.  The 
father  felt  instinctively  that  will  was  there  to  meet  his  own,  and  that  it 
was  a man’s  will  and  not  a child’s  will.  Had  his  son  grown  from  boy- 
hood to  manhood  at  a single  hour’s  growth,  Monsieur  Gerard  could 
scarcely  more  palpably  have  seen  the  alteration,  than  he  read  the  one 
which  had  taken  place  in  his  son’s  mind  from  ductile  youth  to  maturity. 
He  recognized  the  origin  of  the  change  and  the  evil,  for  such  he  felt  it 
to  be,  and  resolved  to  deal  with  it  at  once.  In  the  first’ place,  he  as- 
sumed a tone  of  more  condescending  equality  with  his  son,  than  he  had 
ever  permitted  himself  to  use  before. 

“ And  so  Gabrielle  is  the  name  of  this  rustic  charmer  of  yours,  is  it?” 
said  Monsieur  Gerard,  drawing  a long  breath  at  the  conclusion  of  his 
scrutiny.  “ And  it  was  to  see  her  that  you  could  get  out  of  bed  so  early, 
and  walk  abroad  a-mornings  ! Upon  my  word  ! I don’t  know,  though, 
that  we  ought  to  be  angry  with  her,  if  she’s  the  cause  of  such  a reforma- 
tion in  our  young  mauvais  sujet’s  habits.” 

“ Be  assured,  all  her  influences  upon  me  are  good— -like  herself said 
Gerard  eagerly. 

“ But  the  better  she  is,  my  dear  Gerard,”  interrupted  his  mother, 
“ the  more  considerate  you  ought  to  be  for  her ; the  acquaintance  of  a 
young  man  like  yourself  cannot  but  compromise  her.  You  cannot  marry 
her,  you  know,  and ” 

“Madame  Gerard!”  thundered  her  husband,  “what  folly  is  this? 
Leave  the  room,  if  you  cannot  talk  more  to  the  purpose.  When  we  are 
by  ourselves,  Gerard  and  I shall  soon  come  to  an  understanding  about 
this  matter.” 

She  prepared  to  obey,  with  a fresh  burst  of  tears ; but  as  she  passed 
her  son,  she  repeated  her  sobbing : — “ 0 Gerard  ! How  could  you  ? 
Tell  your  father  you  are  very  sorry — and  are  prepared  to  give  up  any 
acquaintance  he  dislikes.” 

“ Mother,  I cannot  say  I am  sorry  for  what  makes  the  happiness  of 
my  life.” 


THE  PHYSICIAN^  ORPHAN. 


205 


:i  Did  you  hear  me  speak,  Madame  Gerard  ?”  again  stormed  the 
banker.  “ Leave  us  !” 

u Now  boy,”  resumed  he,  when  his  wife  had  closed  the  door  behind 
her ; “ let  us  hear  all  about  this  peasant  girl.  What  sort  of  looking 
wench  is  she?  But  of  course,  a paragon  of  beauty — all  young  men’s 
first  flames  are  Yenuses  !” 

“ She  is  no  flame  of  mine said  Gerard  hastily. 
u No?  Morbleu,  I’m  glad  to  hear  that ! By  your  manner,  I feared 
that  you  were  entangled  past  all  hope — shot  through  and  through  the 
heart — over  head  and  ears  in  love.  Too  absurd  in  a boy  like  you ! 
Allons,”  continued  Monsieur  Gerard,  “ this  is  some  comfort,  however,  to 
find  that  you  have  only  had  a passing  fancy  for  picking  up  low  acquaint- 
ances : — but  mind,  it’s  a bad  habit,  and  one  that  grows  upon  you,  and  I 
want  you  to  rise  in  the  world,  Gerard,  my  boy,  and  you  won’t  do  that  by 
associating  with  poor  country  curates  and  their  hoyden  nieces.” 

“ I forgive  your  speaking  in  injurious  terms  of  one  you  do  not  know, 
sir said  Gerard.  “ But  from  what  I said  just  now  in  hasty  refutation 
of  your  light  manner  of  speaking  of  Gabrielle,  you  may  be  misled  into 
the  belief  that  I do  not  love  her.  I would  not  have  you  deceived  for  an 
instant,  father ; I do  love  her,  but  I did  not  know  until  to-day  how  en- 
tirely she  possesses  my  love.  Now  that  I know  my  own  heart,  I open 
it  to  you.  I do  not  ask  you  to  sanction  my  affection  until  you  know  its 
object — but,  once  you  have  seen  my  Gabrielle,  you  will  help  your  son  to 
obtain  her,  as  the  best  blessing  life  can  afford.” 

“ Ay,  ay.  we’ll  see  this  pretty  rustic,  and  try  what  we  can  do  to  induce 
her  to  be  kind said  the  French  banker.  “ But  mind,  Gerard,  if  I 
indulge  you,  in  permitting  you  to  choose  your  own  acquaintances  for 
passing  your  idle  toying  hours,  I expect  you  to  conform  to  my  wishes  in 
material  points.  The  Chevalier  de  Yaumond  is  a man  whom  I approve 
of  as  your  friend  ; and  I hope  shortly  to  introduce  you  to  a young  lady, 
the  daughter  of  a very  old  friend  of  mine,  the  Baron  de  Montigny,  who 
has  been  residing  many  years  in  Italy ; — and  this  young  lady  I should 
wish  you  to  make  your  best  friend — your  wife,  Gerard.” 

“ My  wife,  sir  !”  exclaimed  Gerard.  “ I have  been  telling  you  my- 
self, of  the  only  woman  whom  I can  ever  make  my  wife.” 


206 


HELENA ; 


“ Pooh,  pooh,  my  dear  fellow ; peasant  wenches  are  not  women  to 
make  wives  of said  Monsieur  Gerard.  “ Understand  me ; I insist 
upon  it,  that  if  I comply  with  pour  whim  of  keeping  up  the  acquaintance 
of  these  villagers,  you  shall  comply  with  my  desire  of  seeing  you  married 
to  Mademoiselle  de  Montigny.  It  is  a match  upon  which  I have  deter- 
mined, from  your  birth  ; and  I will  be  obeyed.” 

“ Then  I have  plainly  to  declare,  that  this  is  a point  in  which  I can- 
not obey  you,  sir said  Gerard.  “ I never  will  marry  any  woman  who 
has  not  my  whole  heart ; and  it  is  already  given  to  Gabrielle.” 

. His  father  again  read,  in  the  firm  calm  tone,  and  in  the  look  which 
met  his  own  with  unflinching  regard,  that  his  son  was  no  longer  a boy. 

“ I’ll  tell  you  what,  Gerard  said  he.  “ You  know  that  I am  a man 
accustomed  to  declare  my  will,  and  to  see  it  accomplished.  You  know, 
too,  that  I am  a man  of  my  word.  Now,  I give  you  my  word  of  honor, 
that  if  you  don’t  marry  according  to  my  will,  I’ll  strip  you  of  every 
farthing  of  allowance,  withdraw  you  from  college,  ruin  your  prospects 
in  life,  and  reduce  you  to  beggary,  in  short.  So  mark  me,  young  man, 
I give  you  four-and-twenty  hours  to  decide  between  marriage  to  please 
me,  and  your  father’s  favor ; or  marriage  to  please  yourself,  and  beg- 
gary,— with  outlawry  from  home  for  ever,  for  I’ll  have  no  disobedience 
in  my  house !” 

And  with  this,  the  banker  stalked  out,  leaving  his  son  to  consider 
his  words  ; who,  however,  did  not  remain  long  in  reflection,  for  he 
snatched  up  his  hat,  and  went  out  also. 

“ The  decision  must  rest  with  her  thought  Gerard,  as  he  took  his 
way  to  the  farm.  “ If  she  does  not  fear  beggary,  why  should  I ? Be- 
sides, beggary  need  not  of  necessity  be  our  portion.  Disinheritance 
does  not  deprive  us  of  our  limbs,  our  faculties  ; I can  work,  I can  earn 
bread,  I can  pursue  my  profession.  With  her — for  her — what  toil 
would  be  painful  ? Cheered  by  her  presence,  secure  of  her  possession, 
as  a motive  and  a reward  for  exertion,  how  glorious  then  will  be  the 
pursuit  of  an  art  so  noble, — a profession  so  worthy  ?” 

u What  was  it  he  said  ?”  he  continued  to  muse,  while  a crimson  spot 
burned  upon  his  cheek,  as  he  recalled  his  father’s  words — “ 1 peasant 


THE  PHYSICIAN'S  ORPHAN. 


207 


girls  are  not  women  to  make  wives  of !’  Monsieur  Gerard  did  not  dis- 
play his  usual  amount  of  worldly  prudence  in  calculating  the  advantages 
of  bargaining  for  such  a woman  as  Gabrielle  on  fair  terms.  In  the  cleai 
mind  of  such  a wife,  a man  secures  aid  in  forming  his  own  judgments ; 
in  the  natural  good  sense  of  such  a woman,  a man  finds  support  and 
encouragement  in  taking  enlarged  views  of  life  ; he  rises  superior  to 
petty  evils  ; he  gains  strength  of  mind,  and  moral  courage  ; he  learns 
to  eschew  prejudice,  to  avoid  enmities,  to  conquer  difficulties,  to  achieve 
fame,  to  win  honor  and  consideration,  to  earn  independence  ; she  at  once 
induces  and  graces  his  advancement.  In  such  a bosom  friend — such  a 
wife, — a man  obtains  the  crown  of  his  existence  ; and  it  is  such  a friend 
as  this  that  a selfishness,  as  mistaken  as  it  is  sordid,  would  degrade  into 
a plaything  for  idle  moments,  a toy  to  be  cast  aside  when  sullied  and 
destroyed.  It  is  the  life-long  amity  and  attachment  of  such  a woman 
as  this,  that  a libertine  would  exchange  for  the  mere  caresses  of  a pass- 
ing hour.  A sensualist  cheats  himself,  as  well  as  his  victim.  He  robs 
himself  of  a treasure,  in  seeking  to  filch  a sparkling  trinket.  In  seek- 
ing to  make  such  a woman  as  Gabrielle  a wife  instead  of  a mistress, 
a man  consults  his  own  interest  (which  methinks  might  weigh  with 
the  Perpignan  banker)  as  well  as  his  glory,  his  honor,  and  his  hap- 
piness.” 

“ But  I picture  her  to  myself  as  a wife,  and  do  I even  know  that  she 
loves  me  % When  I parted  from  her  this  morning,  I knew  not  what 
was  passing  in  my  own  heart,  and  I perceived  nothing  in  her  manner 
that  should  give  me  hope  aught  existed  within  hers,  akin  to  my  own 
feeling.  We  were  both  happy  friends — nothing  more  ; she  brought  me 
my  hat,  and  helped  me  to  look  for  my  gloves,  and  bade  me  hasten  on  my 
way  home,  with  the  easy  smiling  air  with  which  a sister  might  send  a 
brother  forth,  secure  of  seeing  him  again  in  a few  hours.  And  so  she 
thought  to  see  me,  to-morrow ; but  in  still  fewer  hours  I am  returning. 
She  will  not  expect  me.  Shall  I find  her  at  the  farm  ? She  may  be 
gone  over  to  see  Monsieur  le  Cure.” 

He  hastened  on,  impatient  at  the  thought  of  her  possible  absence  ; 
and  as  if  he  would  have  detained  her  on  the  spot  where  he  hoped  to  find 


208 


HELENA  ! 


her.  He  thought  he  could  tell  her  all  he  felt  and  all  he  hoped,  best  in 
that  quiet  pleasant  sitting-room  of  hers,  in  the  pavilion  ; as  he  thought 
of  all  he  had  to  speak,  to  entreat,  he  wished  he  might  find  her  there,  in 
that  retired  spot,  secure  from  interruption,  till  he  had  poured  forth  all 
his  heart  to  her. 

In  such  fancies  did  the  young  lover  indulge,  as  he  sped  along  the 
well-known  path  ; when  just  as  he  reached  an  angle,  where  it  turned  off 
abruptly  into  the  wood,  he  saw,  sitting  under  the  trees,  at  a little  dis- 
tance, Gabrielle  herself. 

The  sight  of  her,  thus  unexpectedly,  and  with  the  thought  of  all 
that  he  had  discovered  of  his  own  feelings  towards  her,  since  he  had  last 
parted,  in  the  calmness  of  friendship,  held  him  for  a second,  endeavour- 
ing to  check  the  tumult  of  his  heart,  which  now  beat  high  with  its 
newly-conscious  emotion. 

From  the  spot  where  he  first  perceived  her,  he  could  see  her  without 
being  seen  ; and,  in  the  pause  of  a second  that  he  made,  he  witnessed 
that  which  held  him  breathless  for  some  seconds  longer.  He  saw  Ga- 
brielle  put  softly  to  her  lips  some  object  that  she  held  in  her  hand,  fon 
die  it  to  her  cheek,  press  it  between  her  palms,  and  then  kiss  it  again 
and  again  tenderly — nay,  passionately.  He  was  burning  to  ascertain 
what  this  object  of  her  caresses  could  be,  when  in  smoothing  it  out  upon 
her  knee,  and  drawing  it  on  to  her  own  little  hand,  he  discerned  it  to  be 
one  of  his  gloves,  which  had  been  mislaid  that  morning,  and  which  was 
nowhere  to  be  found  when  he  was  about  to  return  home. 

He  was  just  springing  forward,  when  his  steps  were  arrested  by 
hearing  others  approach  hurriedly  through  the  trees,  in  the  direction  of 
the  farm. 

In  another  moment,  Petit  Pierre  came  brushing  and  rustling  through 
the  underwood,  bawling  Gabrielle’s  name,  panting  and  out  of  breath. 
But  before  the  lad  came  up,  Gerard  had  beheld  the  glove  hastily, 
though  securely,  concealed  in  Gabrielle’s  bosom. 

u 0 I’m  so  glad  you  hadn’t  got  far,  Mademoiselle,”  said  the  cowboy. 
“ Your  father  guessed  you  had  set  out  upon  your  way  to  Monsieur  le 
Cure’s,  and  bade  me  run  after  you,  and  see  if  I couldn’t  overtake  you 


THE  PHYSICIANS  ORPHAN. 


209 


and  bring  yon  back  ; be  wants  to  speak  to  you  about  those  rose-bushes 
that  he  is  going  to  have  removed  from  before  the  dairy-window ; he  says 
they’re  in  the  way  there,  and  he  wishes  to  know  where  you’d  best  like 
to  have  them  transplanted.” 

“ I’ll  come  back  with  you  directly,  Pierre  said  Gabrielle,  rising 
from  her  grassy  seat.  As  she  did  so,  she  perceived  Gerard,  who  ad- 
vanced to  meet  her.  With  her  usual  frank  grace  she  congratulated 
herself  and  him  upon  his  having  been  able  so  soon  to  return,  imagining 
that  some  college  holiday  permitted  this  excursion. 

Ci  And  I hope  you  have  the  whole  day  to  spare  us  said  she.  “ We 
will  return  with  Petit  Pierre,  to  see  what  my  father  proposes,  and  to 
settle  with  him  the  best  new  place  for  the  rose-trees  ; and  then,  if  you 
please,  we’ll  go  over  to  Monsieur  le  Cure’s  together.  I was  on  my  way 
to  show  him  this  beautiful  4 Clotilde  de  Surville’  which  you  brought  me 
yesterday.” 

The  hearty  farmer  seemed  as  well  pleased  as  his  daughter  to  see  the 
i bon  jeune  homme’  so  soon  among  them  again.  Gerard  had  become  a 
great  favorite  with  the  old  man  ; he  liked  his  sincere  straightforward 
manners,  and  his  unaffected  cordiality  ; while  the  warm  interest  which 
he  took  in  all  matters  that  related  to  the  farm  and  its  inhabitants,  and 
the  liking  he  displayed  for  simple  rural  pleasures,  pleased  the  country- 
man, and  won  his  regard. 

The  affair  of  the  removal  of  Gabrielle’s  rose-trees  was  soon  arranged 
to  the  mutual  satisfaction  of  the  assembled  trihominate;  and  then,  while 
the  farmer  went  off  to  his  barns,  Gerard  and  Gabrielle  sauntered  through 
the  garden  towards  the  pavilion. 

“ I have  told  Babette  to  take  some  strawberries  and  cream  there  for 
us  ;”  said  Gentille-et-sage  ; u I thought  you  would  like  to  sit  in  the 
shade  and  eat  some  fruit  before  we  set  out  for  Monsieur  le  Cure’s.  I 
think  I will  pop  a little  pot  of  cream  in  a basket  for  the  dear  old  man ; 
and  we’ll  carry  it  to  him.  And  I think  I can  find  room  for  a fowl  and 
some  new-laid  eggs,  and  we’ll  ask  him  to  give  us  some  dinner,  shall  we?” 

“ With  all  my  heart  j and  yet— — ” Gerard  paused. 

Gabrielle  asked  him  archly  if  his  hesitation  proceeded  from  the 


210 


HELENA ; 


weight  of  the  basket  he  would  have  to  bear  ; u for  I give  you  warning/ 
said  she,  u that  I mean  to  let  you  carry  it  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the 
way.” 

“ I willingly  engage  to  let  you  carry  it  no  step  of  the  way  yourself;” 
said  he.  “ It  was  not  the  basket  that  weighed  upon  my  mind  ; but  I 
feel  some  scruples  of  conscience,  I own,  in  accepting  a second  feast  at 
the  hands  of  Monsieur  le  Cure,  when  I have  it  in  my  hope  to  ask  of  his 
bounty  a boon  of  surpassing  worth.” 

“ Indeed  !”  said  Gabrielle.  “ This  sounds  like  a secret.  You  must 
promise  to  tell  me  what  it  is  that  you  are  going  to  ask  of  Monsieur  le 
Cure, — I long  to  know.  In  the  first  place,  I never  had  any  secrets, 
either  of  my  own  or  anybody  else’s,  to  keep — and  there  must  be  some- 
thing very  grand  and  very  pleasant  in  having  a secret ; and  in  the  next 
place,  I can  perhaps  help  you  in  obtaining  this  favor  from  him  ; though 
he  is  such  a kind  old  darling,  he  never  can  find  it  in  his  heart  to  refuse 
anybody  anything.” 

“ And  yet  this  is  a very,  very  great  favor — the  most  valuable  of  all 
gifts.  Still,  you  promise  me  your  help — and  your  help  is  everything — * 
nay,  unless  you,  Gabrielle,  grant  me  the  boon  first,  I cannot  ask  it  of 
Monsieur  le  Cure.” 

u Tell  me,  tell  me  ; I am  all  impatience,”  said  she,  “ to  learn  this 
secret;  tell  me  what  is  the  gift  you  mean  to  ask  of  Monsieur  le  Cure.” 

“ I want  him  to  give  me  a wife  ;”  said  Gerard. 

A rapid  succession  of  emotions  was  visible  upon  the  clear  artless 
face  of  the  country  girl.  First  there  was  the  sudden  wonder  at  so  new 
an  idea  presenting  itself  to  her,  as  Gerard’s  marriage ; then  the  pallor 
which  the  thought  of  his  loss  occasioned,  was  replaced  by  a flood  of  rosy 
color  which  suffused  her  cfeeeks,  brow,  and  neck,  with  the  dawning  con- 
sciousness of  who  was  really  the  woman  he  desired  for  the  wife  he  sought 
of  the  Cure. 

u You  may  have  failed  to  discover  my  love — I learned  not  its  depth 
myself,  until  to-day,  my  Gabrielle,”  said  the  young  man,  pouring  forth 
his  words  in  hurried  passionate  accents  ; 66  still,  you  cannot  but  have 
perceived  how  my  happiness  has  grown  since  I have  known  you,  how 


THE  PHYSICIAN^  ORPHAN. 


211 


my  soul  has  knit  itself  to  yours,  how  my  grateful  heart  has  exulted  in 
the  regard  you  have  accorded  me,  in  the  gentle  interest  you  have  shown, 
in  the  affectionate  tone  you  have  permitted  to  subsist  between  us.  You 
may  have  mistaken  these  tokens  of  my  feelings  for  those  of  esteem,  of 
friendship  merely — till  my  father’s  words  opened  my  eyes  this  morn- 
ing, I mistook  them  for  such  myself — -but  0,  Gabrielle,  believe  that 
the  esteem,  the  friendship  I feel  for  you  have  all  the  warmth  of  love — • 
of  love  only — and  it  is  as  the  partner  of  my  existence — as  the  crown 
of  all  my  hopes — as  my  wife,  that  I beseech  you  to  give  me  yours  in 
return.” 

Gabrielle  drooped  her  head,  instead  of  replying  to  her  lover’s  passion- 
ate appeal,  and  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  known  Gerard,  her  looks 
failed  to  respond  to  his.  She  seemed  to  be  struggling  for  courage  to 
strengthen  herself  against  his  pleading. 

“ Your  father’s  words  !”  she  faltered;  “then  he  refuses  to  sanction 
your  love.” 

“ His  prejudices  are  worldly — he  is  unjust — he  does  not  know  your 
worth,  my  Gabrielle,”  said  her  lover. 

“A  father’s  prejudices  deserve  consideration;”  said  the  low  voice  of 
Gentille-et-sage. 

“ But  not  to  the  destruction  of  a son’s  happiness ;”  said  Gerard.  “ Not 
when  they  interfere  to  sever  those  that  love  each  other.  My  Gabrielle 
would  not  have  me  abide  by  a parent’s  prejudices  when  they  bid  me 
marry  where  I cannot  love.  Surely,  mutual  love  has  sacred  claims  of 
its  own?” 

“ Ay,  mutual  love  ;”  murmured  Gentille-et-sage,  persevering  with 
what  she  conceived  to  be  the  duty  of  refusing  one  who  sought  her 
against  his  father’s  will,  she  strove  to  resume  her  old  tone  of  archness 
and  easy  gaiety,  “ you  speak  of  mutual  love ; but  though  you  have  told 
me  of  your  own,  I have  not  told  you  of  mine.  Pray  who  told  you  that 
I have  any  love  for  you  ?” 

u My  own  eyes  ;”  said  Gerard.  “ Although  my  Gabrielle  will  not 
tell  me  that  her  heart  has  understood  mine,  that  she  has  read  its  depth 
of  afiection  beneath  the  smiling  ease  of  our  late  happy  friendship,  al- 


212  Helena: 

though  she  will  not  generously  own  that  her  love  exists  as  truly  as  mine ; 
still  I do  not  despair.” 

“ And  where  is  your  hope,  audacious?”  asked  the  blushing  and 
smiling  Gabrielle,  who  could  not  resist  the  happy  confidence  of  Gerard’s 
eyes. 

11  Here said  he,  drawing  his  odd  glove  from  his  pocket.  “ I have 
found  my  missing  glove — the  fellow  to  this  one.  I know  where  it  is,  at 
this  instant.” 

The- hand  of  Gentille-et-sage  stole  towards  the  convicted  boddice, 
which  fluttered  and  heaved  with  the  consciousness  of  harbouring  ab- 
stracted goods.  For  a moment  she  sat  thus,  the  picture  of  innocent 
guilt,  covered  with  blushes  of  mingled  modesty,  gladness,  confusion,  and 
happy  love  revealed  ; then  without  raising  her  eyes,  she  drew  the  de- 
tected glove  forth  from  its  concealment,  took  its  fellow  from  her  lover, 
and  folding  them  one  in  the  other,  replaced  them  thus  both  together  in 
the  same  sweet  hiding-place. 

Gerard  was  not  slow  to  read  this  mute  troth-plight,  and  confession 
of  her  love  ; but,  with  a lover’s  true  avarice,  which  exacts  fresh  indul- 
gence with  each  new  evidence  of  affection,  he  rested  not  until  he  had 
obtained  a spoken  avowal,  which  Gabrielle  gave  him  in  her  own  simple 
ingenuous  manner. 

He,  in  return,  frankly  told  her  that  he  had  no  wealth  to  offer  her, 
save  his  resolve  to  earn  independence,  by  unremitting  industry  in  the 
acquirement  and  pursuit  of  his  profession ; but  if  she  would  share  in 
his  early  struggle,  and  become  at  once  his  incentive  and  reward,  he 
doubted  not  of  success.  He  did  not  conceal  from  her  the  alternative 
offered  by  his  father’s  severity ; but  he  knew  enough  of  Gabrielle,  to 
feel  secure  that  the  loss  of  present  fortune  consequent  upon  incurring 
Monsieur  Gerard’s  displeasure,  caused  no  part  of  her  hesitation — which 
had  proceeded  solely  from  dread  of  inducing  a son’s  disobedience. 
Gerard  did  not  falsely  calculate  the  motives  and  principles  of  her  he 
loved. 

Nor  was  it  long  before  he  succeeded  in  vanquishing  her  scruples  on 
his  father’s  account ; in  persuading  her  that  she  owed  more  considera- 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


213 


tlon  towards  one  she  knew  and  loved,  than  towards  one  she  had  never 
seen ; in  pleading  his  cause,  with  love’s  own  casuistry,  so  well,  in  short, 
that  he  gained  her  leave  to  ask  her  of  her  fathor  at  once,  and,  if  he 
should  sanction  their  union,  her  promise  to  resume  the  former  plan  of 
going  over  to  Monsieur  le  Cure’s  that  very  morning. 

The  hearty  farmer,  when  he  found  the  object  with  which  the  young 
people  sought  him,  only  said : — “ Ask  G-abrielle,  mon  bon  jeune  homme, 
ask  her;  if  she  be  pleased,  I am  pleased.  If  she  can  be.  happy  with 
you  for  a husband,  I shall  be  happy  to  have  you  for  a son-in-law.” 

And  soon  the  lovers  were  on  their  way  to  the  village  where  Monsieur 
le  Cure  lived ; nor  were  the  fowl,  the  eggs,  nor  the  cream  forgotten, 
though  there  was  happiness  enough  to  have  made  it  very  excusable, 
even  had  the  basket  been  left  behind. 

“ And  now  to  ask  you  of  your  second  father,  my  Gabrielle said 
Gerard.  “ We  must  obtain  his  consent  to  bestow  you  upon  me  at  once  ; 
for  I am  resolved  not  to  return  home  till  I am  able  to  tell  my  father  not 
only  my  irrevocable  decision,  but  that  my  happiness  in  life  is  as  irrevo- 
cably decided  as  my  choice.” 

“ Heaven  send  that  it  may  be  indeed  your  happiness  which  is  thus 
decided  by  your  choice,”  said  Gentille-et-sage  ; “ but  you  must  promise 
me  to  return  home  straight  from  Monsieur  le  Cure’s,  instead  of  seeing 
me  back  to  the  farm;  it  will  be  only  just  to  your  father  to  tell  him  of 
your  decision  at  once.” 

“ The  farm  is  my  home  now,”  said  Gerard.  “ I know  my  father  too 
well,  not  to  be  quite  sure  that  he  will  abide  by  the  alternative  he  has 

fixed.” 

“ Still  it  is  your  duty  to  inform  him  which  alternative  you  have 
chosen ;”  said  Gabrielle. 

“You  are  right;”  said  her  lover.  “It  is  only  honest  to  let  him 
know  which  marriage  I have  chosen  ; it  is  for  him  to  say  whether  he  will 
not  remit  the  other  part  of  the  sentence.” 

“ Ay,  he  may  think  better  of  it,  and  change  outlawry  into  forgiveness 
and  welcome ;”  said  Gabrielle,  with  the  sanguine  hope  of  youth,  and  of 
one  who  had  never  known  other  than  indulgence  from  her  own  parent. 


214 


HELENA  ; 


Gerard  shook  his  head.  “You  do  not  know  my  father — I do. 
However,  I will  go ; he  shall,  at  any  rate,  have  the  option  of  a kinder 
fiat.  But  remember,  ma  mie,  should  it  prove  a harsh  one,  you  must 
prepare  to  receive  an  outcast  at  the  pavilion  this  evening.  Whether  my 
sentence  be  amnesty  or  banishment,  I shall  return  to  the  farm  directly 
it  has  been  pronounced.” 

“ Where  you  shall  find  either  gratulation  or  comfort said  Gentille- 
et-sage,  with  one  of  her  sweet  frank  smiles. 

When  they  reached  Monsieur  le  Cure’s  cottage,  they  found  the  old 
man  in  his  garden ; a jug  of  fresh  spring-water  was  in  his  hand,  from 
which  he  was  preparing  to  fill  a shallow  vessel,  that  he  always  kept  sup- 
plied for  the  accommodation  of  the  birds. 

“ I love  to  bring  them  about  me,”  said  he ; “ and  plenty  of  water  for 
them  to  drink  and  bathe  in,  is  as  welcome  to  them  in  summer,  as  strewed 
crumbs  are  in  the  winter ; so,  as  I have  not  a pond  in  my  garden,  as 
you  have  in  yours,  Gentille-et-sage,  I have  bethought  me  of  this  plan  for 
letting  them  dip  their  dainty  beaks,  and  plunge,  and  flounce,  and  flutter 
their  wings  and  feathers  to  their  hearts’  content.  I am  glad  to  see  you? 
mon  cher  monsieur.  What  is  that  you  have  in  your  basket,  Getitille-et- 
sage?  Something  very  nice,  as  usual,  for  the  old  man’s  dinner.  I 
thought  so,  you  little  rogue  ! Well,  we  must  get  Jeanneton  to  make  us 
a fricandeau  and  an  omelet,  out  of  these  good  things ; and  we  shall  have 
quite  a feast,  shan’t  we  ?” 

“And  I am  sure  Madame  Jeanneton  will  exert  her  best  skill,  Mon- 
sieur le  Cure,”  said  Gerard,  “ when  she  knows  it  is  to  be  a wedding- 
dinner.” 

The  old  man  looked  at  him ; then  at  the  dimpling  blushing  face  of 
Gentille-et-sage  ; and  said  : — “ Ah,  ha,  is  it  even  so  ? I thought  as  much, 
I declare,  when  I used  to  see  this  little  rogue  turn  her  head  away  every 
time  I asked  her  whether  she  had  seen  that  good  young  Monsieur  Ge- 
rard lately.  Ah,  ha  ! the  old  man  is  very  cunning — he  knows  Gentille- 
et-sage  cannot  tell  an  untruth,  and  so  he  used  to  ask  her  this  on  purpose 
to  see  her  look  down  and  own  that  the  jeune  monsieur  had  been  to  the 
farm  that  morning.  ‘And  yesterday?’  ‘Yes,  mon  pere.’  ‘And  the 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S.  ORPHAN. 


215 


day  before?1’  £Yes,  mon  pere.’  Ah,  ha!  I thought  what  all  these 
< yes,  mon  peres,’  and  all  these  visits  would  end  in.  Ah,  ha ! the  old 
man  is  very  sly,  and  can  see  many  things  that  Gentille-et-sage  fancies 
she  keeps  very  snug,  sage  as  she  is  ! And  what  say  your  parents  to  this 
marriage,  my  children?  What  says  your  father,  Gabrielle?  What  says 
yours,  mon  cher  jeune  monsieur?” 

The  whole  state  of  affairs  was  candidly  stated  to  the  good  priest ; 
and  his  simplicity  could  not  find  any  objection  to  offer  against  con- 
senting to  join  two  young  people  who  loved  each  other,  and  who 
availed  themselves  of  a granted  alternative  between  poverty  and  sepa- 
ration. 

He  united  their  hands ; and  a few  hours  after  Gerard  and  Gabrielle 
had  been  made  man  and  wife,  they  took  their  respective  paths  to  Per- 
pignan, and  to  the  farm,  consoling  themselves  for  this  temporary  part- 
ing, in  the  thought  of  the  duty  that  demanded  it,  in  the  reflection  that 
they  were  now  beyond  the  power  of  fate  to  divide  them,  and  in  the  hope 
of  meeting  again  ere  close  of  day. 

Not  thus  speedily,  however,  was  their  hope  fulfilled.  When  the 
young  man  reached  his  father’s  house,  Monsieur  Gerard  had  not  re- 
turned from  the  banking-house.  As  the  best  means  of  controlling  his 
impatience,  Gerard  betook  himself  to  his  own  room,  and  endeavoured  to 
fix  his  attention  upon  a medical  treatise  which  he  had  been  diligently 
studying  of  late.  But  now  the  pages  failed  to  convey  any  meaning  to 
him ; his  brain  refused  to  receive  any  definite  impression  from  the  sen- 
tences he  read ; the  lines  w;aved  and  swam  before  his  eyes,  the  words 
danced  hither  and  thither,  and  formed  themselves  into  fantastic  images 
of  Gabrielle’s  eyes,  her  hair,  her  mouth,  her  smile,  every  varied  look  of 
her  countenance,  every  movement  of  her  graceful  figure.  But  he  was 
not  long  detained  thus.  He  heard  his  father’s  step  in  the  corridor,— 
which  led  to  Monsieur  Gerard’s  room  as  well  as  his  own,— and  stepping 
forwards,  thus  addressed  him.  ££  Father,  you  accorded  me  twenty-four 
hours  to  decide  on  the  alternative  you  offered  me  this  morning.  But  as 
my  mind  is  made  up,  I would  not  an  instant  defer  the  avowal  of  my 
choice.” 


216 


.HELENA  ; 


“ Then  it  is  your  choice,  and  not  mine,  that  yon  determine  to  abide 
by,  is  it?”  said  Monsieur  Gerard,  in  his  usual  mode  of  forming  his  own 
conclusions.  “ But  I will  take  good  care  you  shall  have  no  opportunity 
of  carrying  out  your  absurd  determination.” 

So  saying,  the  banker  furiously  slammed-to  the  door  of  his  son’s 
apartment,  and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  while  Gerard  hastily  ex- 
claimed “ Father,  I am  already  married !”  But  Monsieur  Gerard 
made  far  too  much  noise  in  his  enraged  departure,  to  hear  the  exclama- 
tion ; and  his  son  could  hear  him  repeating,  as  he  strode  along  the  cor- 
ridor : — “ No,  no ; no,  no ; I’ll  take  good  care  you  shan’t  carry  out  your 
fool’s  intention,  sirrah  !” 

Gerard  sprang  to  the  door,  and  shook  it ; but  it  was  too  surely  fas- 
tened. He  threw  up  the  window — -but  there  were  too  many  feet  between 
it  and  the  ground,  for  even  his  eagerness  to  venture  the  leap. 

He  paused  and  listened ; he  heard  the  family  assembling  for  the 
evening  meal — he  heard  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  dining-room 
door— he  heard  the  domestics  moving  to  and  fro — and  he  determined  to 
rein  his  impatience  until  one  of  them  should  be  sent  with  his  allotted 
portion,  if  it  was  indeed  intended  that  he  should  be  treated  in  all  re- 
spects like  a prisoner.  But  possibly  Monsieur  Gerard  thought  that  a 
little  wholesome  fasting  might  not  be  amiss  in  helping  a refractory 
spirit  to  due  submission ; for  hour  after  hour  passed,  and  no  one  came 
near  the  delinquent’s  chamber.  Evening  closed  in ; nightfall  came — 
and  still  Gerard  remained  in  solitude  and  darkness,  pacing  his  room  like 
a caged  lion,  his  spirit  fretting  against  this  tyrannous  confinement^ 
while  his  thoughts,  emancipating  themselves  as  his  body  would  fain  have 
done,  winged  their  way  towards  the  pavilion  of  the  farm,  where  he  knew 
sat  one  watching  through  the  starlit  night  for  his  coming.  Morning 
dawned.  “ Patience,”  murmured  the  prisoner  to  himself ; “ he  will  not 
let  me  starve,  and  when  he  sends  me  food,  I will  make  an  appeal  to  my 
gaoler,  whoever  it  may  be  whom  he  has  appointed  to  the  office.” 

But  noon  came  before  food  was  sent.  It  was  bread  and  water ; and 
was  brought  by  one  of  the  lackeys  of  his  father’s  household. 
u Jerome,”  said  Gerard,  u tell  my  father  that  I ” 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


217 


The  lackey  shook  his  head,  and  hastily  withdrew,  leaving  a small 
note  on  his  young  master’s  table. 

The  note  was  from  Monsieur  Gerard,  and  contained  these  words : — 
“ Gerard, 

When  you  are  prepared  to  conform  in  all  things  to  my  pleasure, 
you  may  signify  as  much  to  me  in  writing — but  till  then,  I forbid  your 
tampering  with  my  domestics,  by  addressing  them  under  pretence  of 
sending  messages  to  me.  J erome  has  orders  to  bring  you  your  daily 
meal  in  silence. 

“Your  offended  father, 

“Antoine  Gerard.” 

“ My  daily  meal  !”  So  then  I shall  not  see  Jerome  again  till  noon 
to-morrow  !”  thought  Gerard.  “ This  is  starving  me  out  with  a ven- 
geance ! Hoping  to  reduce  strength  of  will  and  strength  of  body  upon 
bread  and  water  ! Prudent  discipline  ! And  this  is  how  my  father 
thinks  to  compel  obedience  ! Is  this  how  he  thinks  to  exact  compliance  ? 
Rebellion,  contumacy,  unnatural  disaffection  may  rather  be  generated 
by  such  means,  than  filial  reverence  and  submission.” 

As  the  afternoon  wore  away,  Gerard  was  sitting  in  another  hopeless 
attempt  to  chain  his  attention  to  the  study  of  his  treatise,  when  a slight 
noise,  near  the  entrance  of  his  room,  attracted  his  notice,  and  upon  look- 
ing in  that  direction,  he  descried  a paper  packet,  which  was  gradually 
making  its  way  beneath  the  door,  thrust  by  some  furtive  hand.  He 
seized  the  paper,  which  he  found  contained  an  iron  nail,  and  these 
words 

“ Monsieur  desired  me  not  to  speak  or  to  listen  to  you — but  he  did 
not  forbid  me  to  write  (which  I luckily  can  do),  or  to  give  you  the  means 
of  pushing  back  the  lock  of  your  door.  I don’t  like  to  see  my  young 
master  shut  up  and  forced  to  live  upon  bread  and  water — I like  liberty 
and  good  eating  myself — a man  hasn’t  a fair  chance  or  a free  choice 
without ’em.  “Jerome.” 

Gerard  hastily  secreted  this  welcome  paper,  and  availed  himself  of 
the  means  of  escape.  He  soon  found  himself  outside  in  the  corridor, 
along  which  he  glided  with  noiseless  steps,  down  the  great  staircase,  into 


218 


HELENA  : 


the  hall,  where  he  was  startled  by  hearing  his  father’s  voice.  But  it 
proceeded  from  the  saloon,  where  Monsieur  Gerard  was  entertaining 
a party  of  guests.  At  that  moment,  Gerard  caught  sight  of  J erome,  who 
was  beckoning  to  him  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  held  his 
fingers  to  his  lips.  Gerard  followed  him  in  silence  ; and  J erome,  lead- 
ing him  hastily  through  a passage  that  communicated  with  the  servants’ 
offices,  darted  into  a small  closet  near  the  larder,  emerged  again  with  a 
basket  in  his  hand,  went  on  towards  a deserted  yard  in  the  rear  of  the 
house,  across  which  he  preceded  Gerard  at  a rapid  pace,  until  he  reached 
a little  cobwebbed,  unused  door,  that  opened  into  a back  street.  Here 
he  paused,  and  thrusting  the  basket  into  Gerard’s  hand,  unlocked  the 
door,  pointed  through  it,  and  enforced  his  meaning,  by  taking  his  young 
master  by  the  shoulder,  and  amicably  turning  him  out. 

Gerard,  hardly  able  to  help  laughing  at  the  man’s  whimsical  adher- 
ence to  the  letter  of  his  master’s  orders  while  he  thus  zealously  infringed 
their  spirit,  lost  no  time  in  hurrying  along  the  unfrequented  back  street, 
from  which  he  made  his  way  out  of  the  town,  and  was  speedily  on  the 
road  to  the  farm. 

In  the  basket,  Gerard  found  substantial  evidence  of  Jerome’s  opinion 
that  a man  needs  better  fare  than  bread  and  water ; and  as  he  walked 
briskly  along,  he  had  an  opportunity  of  enjoying  that  worthy  domestic’s 
favorite  combination  of  liberty  and  good  eating. 

The  short  twilight  that  succeeds  a southern  sunset  had  yielded  to 
the  shades  of  evening  by  the  time  Gerard  reached  the  farm.  He  threaded 
the  bowery  lane  which  skirted  the  premises,  in  the  hope  that  the  little 
door  in  the  garden-wall  might  have  been  left  unfastened  for  his  access. 
It  was  as  he  hoped.  “ I am  expected  he  thought,  as  the  door  yielded 
to  his  hand.  He  pushed  through  the  clustering  bushes  and  fruit-trees, 
that  hung  their  boughs  athwart  the  narrow  garden-path.  He  sprang  up 
the  steps  that  led  into  the  pavilion.  It  was  empty — she  was  not  there. 
But  the  intermediate  door  that  led  into  the  inner  room  was  partly  open ; 
and  as  Gerard’s  eye  caught  sight  of  the  two  pillows,  which  now  peered 
among  the  neat  white  draperies  of  the  alcove,  his  heart  again  whispered : 
— “ I am  expected.” 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


219 


The  stars  shone  clear  in  the  blue  arch  of  heaven ; in  at  the  open 
oasment  stole  the  soft  breeze  of  evening,  rich  with  the  perfume  of  fruit 
and  flower ; no  sound  broke  the  stillness ; and  purity  and  peace  seemed 
to  hover  with  their  angel  wings  around  this  sequestered  spot. 

Gerard  hears  a light  footstep  ; he  can  discern  a coming  figure  ; he 
leans  from  the  window,  and  as  she  approaches  beneath,  he  drops  his 
glove  with  true  aim.  Gabrielle  instinctively  retains  it,  recognizes  the 
tokens  of  his  presence,  looks  up,  sees  him, — at  a bound  is  on  the  top 
step,  and  the  next  instant  is  clasped  in  her  husband’s  arms. 

For  a few  happy  weeks  did  Gerard  permit  himself  to  linger  in  this 
quiet  pavilion,  making  it  his  dwelling-place,  and  the  scene  of  his  wedded 
joys  ; but  with  his  characteristic  honesty,  he  would  not  allow  himself  to 
lose  sight  of  the  strict  course  of  duty  he  had  marked  out  for  himself, 
by  yielding  to  the  too-seductive  idleness  of  such  a retirement.  Accord- 
ingly he  roused  himself  from  his  blissful  dream  of  existence,  and  im- 
parted to  his  wife  a plan  he  had  conceived  for  commencing  a more  active 
life,  and  one  which  should  be  the  means  of  fulfilling  his  hope  of  earning 
independence  and  fame. 

At  Narbonne  there  lived  an  old  doctor,  who  was  Gerard’s  godfather. 
Much  deference  had  formerly  been  paid  to  this  old  doctor’s  opinions 
by  the  Perpignan  banker;  for  Doctor  Dubrusc  was  esteemed  wealthy, 
and  in  the  hope  of  gratifying  a rich  godfather,  as  well  as  that  his  son 
might  be  brought  up  to  a profession  instead  of  trade,  Monsieur  Gerard 
had  sent  his  son  to  college,  to  study  with  an  ultimate  view  to  a doctor’s 
degree.  But  in  course  of  time,  it  came  to  be  discovered,  or  rather 
Monsieur  Gerard  came  to  one  of  his  conclusions  upon  the  subject,  that 
the  reputation  which  Doctor  Dubrusc  had  gained  for  being  a man  of 
wealth,  was  merely  founded  upon  his  eccentricity, — his  peremptory  man- 
ner, his  repulsive  brevity,  his  indifference  to  the  opinion  of  others,  his 
reserve,  his  solitary  habits,  his  wilfulness — all  which  traits  had  been 
considered  indicative  of  the  conscious  possessor  of  wealth,  as  it  was  sup- 
posed that  a poor  man  would  not  have  dared  to  indulge  in  such  unpro- 
ductive whims  of  conduct.  Circumstances  arose  which  occasioned 
Monsieur  Gerard  t o adopt  his  new  view  of  the  matter,  and  to  believe 


220 


HELENA  ; 


that  after  all,  Doctor  Dubrusc  was  one  of  those  absurd  beings  who  con- 
sent to  resign  all  worldly  advantage,  for  the  one  delight  of  carrying  out 
their  own  humour,  and  who,  in  consequence,  remain  paupers  to  the  end 
of  their  days.  When  once  Monsieur  Gerard  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  this  was  the  case,  the  connection  with  the  old  Narbonne  Doctor 
had  been  gradually  but  decidedly  dropped. 

The  last  time  that  Gerard  had  seen  his  godfather  was  at  the  college 
at  Perpignan,  on  the  day  when  he  had  completed  his  twelfth  year.  The 
boy  had  been  summoned  to  see  a visitor,  and  found  Doctor  Dubrusc 
standing  in  the  room  appropriated  to  guests. 

Gerard  showed  sincere  delight  at  seeing  thus  expectedly  one  jom 
he  remembered  as  a child  ; but  when  he  pulled  a chair  for  the  old  man, 
who  stood  there  stock  still  and  begged  him  to  sit  down,  Doctor  Du- 
brusc only  mumbled: — “Not  tired;”  proceeded  to  look  his  godson 
steadily  in  the  face  for  a minute  or  two,  ending  his  scrutiny  with  an 
emphatic  “ Humph  !” 

“ You  will  go  with  me  to  my  father’s,  sir;  I can  obtain  leave  to  go 
with  you,  directly,  I know,”  said  Gerard.  “ He  will  be  glad  to  see  you.” 

“ Don’t  want  to  see  him  ; shan’t  call ;”  said  Doctor  Dubrusc.  “ Did 
want  to  see  you — have  seen  you — that’s  all !”  And  the  old  man  turned 
on  his  heel,  and  was  going  straight  out  of  the  room. 

“ 0 don’t  go  ! Don’t  go  ! I’ve  seen  nothing  of  you  yet ! Don’t 
go,  doctor !”  said  Gerard. 

“Want  to  see  me, — come !”  said  the  doctor  without  turning  back; 
and  in  another  moment  he  was  gone. 

Gerard  had  often  thought  of  this  singular  visitation  of  his  god- 
father ; and  had  as  often  begged  his  father’s  permission  to  go  to  Nar- 
bonne to  see  one  whom  he  had  always  liked,  spite  of  his  oddity. 

But  Monsieur  Gerard  had  no  notion  of  sending  his  son  so  far  merely 
to  comply  with  a boy’s  wishes,  and  with  those  of  a dictatorial  old  man, 
who  had  no  right  of  opulence  to  .entitle  him  to  indulgence  ; so  year 
after  year  had  passed  away  without  Gerard  having  seen  any  more  of 
his  godfather,  though  he  frequently  regretted  this  abrupt  termination  of 
their  intercourse. 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


221 


Now  he  related  to  Gabrielle  the  circumstances  concerning  this  god- 
father ; and  he  told  her  he  thought  that  if  this  eccentric  old  doctor 
would  consent  to  take  him  as  a pupil,  and  conclude  what  had  been  well 
commenced  at  college,  he  should  shortly  be  in  a condition  to  commence 
practice  as  a physician. 

“ It  is  asking  a sacrifice  at  your  hands,  my  Gabrielle,”  said  her 
husband,  “ to  propose  your  leaving  your  father,  your  friend  and  second 
father,  the  Cure,  and  your  native  home,  to  go  and  settle  in  a strange 
place  ; but  in  Narbonne,  with  Doctor  Dubrusc’s  instruction  and  counsel, 
I feel  sure  of  a career  which  must  bring  us  independence.  Who 
knows?  I may  one  day  see  you  the  wife  of  a famous  physician.  One 
day  I may  win  a surname  that  shall  serve  to  reconcile  my  father  to  his 
denounced  son.  Should  I live  to  be  called  Doctor  Gerard  de  Narbonne, 
it  will  replace  the  family  name,  which,  if  my  father  still  retain  his  ire, 
he  may  wish  me  to  resign  ; in  any  case,  it  cannot  fail  to  please  him, 
and  would  gratify  his  pride.  I have  courage  to  ask  this  sacrifice  of  my 
Gabrielle  ; for  I have  good  hope  that  honor  and  wealth  await  us  in 
Narbonne.” 

Gabrielle  for  an  instant  thought  how  willingly  she  could  resign  any 
prospect  of  worldly  advantage,  so  that  she  might  still  abide  in  this 
peaceful  spot,  the  scene  of  her  childhood  sports,  her  indulged  youth,  her 
happy  bridal  hours ; but  she  felt  that  it  might  be  otherwise  with  her 
husband,  whose,  energy  and  talent  required  a broader  field — and  whose 
honest  spirit  naturally  sought  self-earned  support.  She  felt  that  though 
she  could  be  well  content  to  owe  all  to  a parent’s  bounty,  yet  Gerard’s 
sense  of  probity  might  shrink  from  trespassing  farther  on  the  generosity 
with  which  her  father  had  hitherto  accorded  them  a home — a home  which 
his  own  exertions  might  obtain.  She  felt  that  she  had  no  right  to  re- 
press his  honorable  ambition,  by  the  utterance  of  her  own  limited  wishes, 
and  she  said  : — 

“ Then  let  us  go  to  Narbonne,  dear  Gerard.” 

Gerard  accordingly  wrote  to  Doctor  Dubrusc,  stating  the  fact  of  his 
rupture  with  his  father  in  consequence  of  his  marriage ; and  asking  his 
godfather  if  he  would  consent  to  aid  a disinherited  son  (who  had  com- 


222 


HELENA ! 


mitted  no  crime  but  availing  himself  of  an  offered  alternative)  to  acquire 
honest  competence  for  his  wife  and  himself. 

Gerard  also  wrote  to  his  father,  stating  his  marriage,  and  expressing 
his  hope  that  he  might  one  day  achieve  distinction,  which  should  restore 
him  to  favor,  and  obliterate  the  remembrance  of  his  having  attempted 
this  achievement  in  a manner  opposed  to  his  father’s  views ; but  no 
notice  was  taken  of  his  letter,  then,  or  ever. 

To  the  former  application,  Gerard  received  the  following  concise 
epistle  in  reply  : — 

“ Told  you  before — ‘ Want  to  see  me — come  P ” 

“ Blaise  Dubrusc.” 

Gabrielle  could  not  help  thinking  this  a little  unpromising  ; but 
seeing  her  husband  look  disconcerted,  she  said  cheerfully,  u Well,  we 
can  go  and  see  him,  at  any  rate  ; he  may  take  a kinder  interest  in  us, 
when  we  are  there,  than  his  words  seem  to  infer.” 

After  many  an  affectionate  leave-taking  had  been  exchanged  between 
the  young  couple  and  their  two  kind  old  fathers,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  and 
the. farmer,  Gerard  and  Gabrielle  set  out  for  Narbonne.  Arrived  there, 
the  young  man  lost  no  time  in  hunting  out  the  obscure  lodging  in  which 
it  pleased  Doctor  Dubrusc  to  abide. 

He  found  him,  after  toiling  up  six  flights  of  stairs,  in  a dilapidated 
old  mansarde,  where  he  sat  environed  with  musty  volumes,  cobwebs, 
dust,  dirt,  and  snuff. 

u Humph  ! There  ; are  you?”  was  his  remark,  as  he  raised  his  head 
from  his  book,  on  Gerard’s  entrance  and  salutation. 

Having  given  the  youth  one  finger,  dry,  dusty,  and  colourless  as  a 
bit  of  touchwood,  which  was  his  way  of  shaking  hands,  he  jerked  his 
head  towards  a chair,  and  said  u Sit  down  !” 

Gerard  complied,  by  lifting  several  tomes  on  to  the  floor  from  one  of 
the  only  two  chairs,  that  were  in  the  room  besides  Doctor  Dubrusc’s, 
drawing  it  forward,  and  seating  himself.  These  two  chairs  had  been  long 
unaccustomed  to  support  any  other  weight  than  that  of  books  ; and  this 
one,  beneath  its  unwonted  human  deposit,  creaked  resentfully  and  omin- 
ously, as  if  it  intended  to  snap,  give  way,  and  come  down,  with  a mali- 
cious fracture. 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


223 


No  such  catastrophe  occurred,  however,  and  Doctor  Dubrusc  inter- 
rupted something  Gerard  was  saying  in  acknowledgment  of  his  permis- 
sion to  come  and  see  him,  and  in  explanation  of  his  having  been  unable 
to  do  so  before,  by  saying  : — “ Tell  me  your  story.” 

Gerard  faithfully  related  all  that  had  happened  from  the  time  he  had 
last  seen  Doctor  Dubrusc  at  Perpignan,  on  his  birthday,  to  the  present 
moment  of  his  arrival  at  Narbonne. 

“ What  d’ye  intend  to  do  ? What  d’ye  want  me  to  do  ?”  were  the 
doctor’s  next  words. 

Gerard  explained  his  views,  his  wishes,  his  hopes  ; to  all  of  which 
Doctor  Debrusc  listened,  and  when  the  young  man  concluded,  said : — 
u Humph  !”  and  turned  round  from  him,  and  stared  blankly  at  the  op- 
posite wall. 

“ Will  you  help  me,  sir  % Will  you  advise  me  ? Will  you  let  me 
study  under  you,  and  commence  practice  under  your  direction  ?”  said 
Gerard. 

“ Yes.  Come  to-morrow.  Go  now.”  And  Doctor  Dubrusc  re- 
sumed the  perusal  of  the  book  over  which  he  had  been  leaning  when 
Gerard  came  in. 

Next  morning,  Gerard  returned  early  to  Doctor  Dubrusc,  who  had 
sketched  out  a course  of  study  for  his  godson,  and  set  his  pupil  down  to 
commence  its  pursuit  at  one  end  of  the  dusty  table,  while  he  himself 
hung  over  his  book  at  the  other. 

Before  the  young  man  settled  down  to  his  work,  he  was  beginning 
to  say  something  of  his  first  impression  of  the  town  of  Narbonne,  and  of 
the  quarter  he  had  chosen  in  seeking  a lodging  for  Gabrielle  and  him- 
self, when  Doctor  Dubrusc,  without  raising  his  eyes  from  his  own  book, 
but  pointing  to  those  which  lay  before  Gerard,  stopped  him  with  : — - 
11  Don’t  talk.  Learn.” 

For  some  hours  Gerard  worked  diligently,  and  in  obedient  silence. 
Then  the  old  doctor  looked  up  and  said : — “ Go  now.  Come  to- 
morrow.” 

His  godson  rose,  and  was  withdrawing,  when  he  returned  to  the 
writing-table,  and  said  : — “ I am  anxious  to  present  my  wife  to  you,  sir, 
that  she  may  add  her  thanks  to  mine,  for  your  kind  help.” 


224 


HELENA ; 


u Wife  ? Pshaw  ! What’s  the  use  of  a wife  ? But  go  now.  Come 
to-morrow.” 

Haying  entertained  his  wife  with  an  account  of  the  old  doctor’s 
eccentric  ways,  Gerard  agreed  with  her,  that  the  benefit  of  his  aid  more 
than  compensated  for  the  strange  style  in  which  it  was  extended,  and 
that  his  instruction  was  far  too  valuable  a gift  to  be  received  without 
gratitude ; so  they  resolved  that  Gabrielle  should  venture  to  accompany 
Gerard  to  his  godfather’s  den  on  the  morrow. 

Wtien  she  entered  the  room,  the  old  doctor  started,  and  rose  from 
the  arm-chair  in  which  he  always  sat,  at  the  table. 

He  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  where  he  stood  stock  still, 
staring  at  her,  while  she,  in  simple  graceful  words,  and  with  a blushing 
face,  where  smiles  played  in  both  eyes  and  mouth,  uttered  her  thanks 
for  his  goodness  to  them  both.  She  could  not  help  these  smiles,  at  the 
recollection  of  all  she  had  heard  of  the  old  doctor’s  oddity  ; which,  con- 
firmed by  his  present  reception  of  herself,  rendered  a decorous  gravity 
impossible. 

But  Doctor  Dubrusc,  after  continuing  to  stare  at  her  for  a few 
minutes  longer,  suddenly  said  : — “ Humph  ! Good  and  pretty  !”  Then 
advancing  a step  or  two  nearer,  said  : — “ Very  !”  Then  abruptly  turn- 
ing on  his  heel,  he  made  his  way  back  to  his  seat  at  the  table,  over 
which,  looking,  as  if  from  a safe  intrenchment,  he  said  : — “ No  women 
here  ! Go  away  !” 

Gabrielle  left  the  room  ; and  Doctor  Dubrusc,  looking  at  his  godson, 
added  : — u Can’t  study  with  ’em.  Send  her  away  !” 

Gerard  hastened  out  after  his  wife,  and  found  her  sitting  on  the 
stair,  at  the  bottom  of  the  first  flight.  As  he  caught  sight  of  her  droop- 
ing head,  he  thought  she  might  have  been  disconcerted,  perhaps  cha- 
grined, at  this  unpropitious  reception  and  summary  dismissal,  but  on 
coming  close  to  her,  he  found  she  was  only  indulging  in  a hearty  fit  of 
laughing  ; of  which  she  was  endeavouring  to  suppress  the  sound,  lest  it 
might  reach  the  queer  old  man’s  ears. 

u He  is  so  droll,  Gerard whispered  she,  with  eyes  brimming  in 
mirthful  tears.  u He  is  so  very  odd  !”  How  do  you  ever  manage  to 


THE  PHYSICIAN^  ORPHAN. 


225 


keep  your  countenance,  while  you  are  studying  with  him — or  to  learn 
any  thing  of  so  strange  a creature  % How  does  he  manage  to  teach 
you,  with  such  sparing  speech  V1 

And  in  truth  it  was  marvellous  how  Gerard  contrived  to  acquire  so 
much,  or  his  godfather  to  impart  so  much  of  knowledge,  as  they  both 
did  in  the  course  of  the  months  which  followed  the  young  couple’s  ar- 
rival in  Narbonne.  But  certain  it  is,  that  though  scarcely  more  than  a 
dozen  words  were  ever  exchanged  between  master  anl  pupil  in  the 
course  of  their  daily  studies,  yet  before  a twelvemonth  had  elapsed, 
Gerard  was  more  proficient  in  his  art  than  many  physicians  who  have 
practised  for  a series  of  years.  Perhaps  there  are  not  wanting  sly 
sceptics  in  the  merits  of  the  generality  of  medical  professors  who  will 
think  this  is  saying  but  little  in  favor  of  the  young  doctor’s  skill ; but 
the  fact  was,  that  Gerard  became  within  the  space  of  time  stated,  ne  t 
only  master  of  a large  amount  of  theoretical  learning,  but  he  had  gained 
some  practical  experience  in  his  profession,  for  he  was  already  consulted 
and  esteemed  by  a circle  of  patients. 

These  were  mostly  poor  people,  it  is  true,  who  could  not  afford  large 
fees  ; so  that  Gerard  and  his  wife  still  occupied  the  humble  lodging  they 
had  taken  on  their  first  arrival  in  Narbonne;  but  they  were  happy  in 
each  other,  and  the  size  or  grandeur  of  their  household  formed  no  part 
of  their  consideration. 

Yet  although  a larger  house,  finer  furniture,,  or  a better-supplied 
table  had  no  share  in  Gabrielle’s  estimate  of  what  might  be  wanting  to 
complete  her  comfort,  she  could  not  but  sometimes  feel  that  incomplete- 
ness to  exist. 

Carefully  she  strove  to  conceal  this  feeling  from  her  husband ; she 
strove  even  to  conceal  it  from  herself ; but  there  were  moments  when 
the  thought  of  bygone  times — when  she  had  dwelt  at  the  farm,  of  those 
few  happy  weeks  when  she  and  her  husband  had  all  the  world  to  them- 
selves in  the  pleasant  old  pavilion- — would  come  upon  her  with  a fond 
retrospection  that  partook  of  regret. 

It  was  not  so  much  the  altered  existence,  as  the  change  which  this 
new  existence  had  wrought  in  Gerard  himself,  which  occasioned  her  in- 
voluntary sigh  when  she  recalled  past  days. 


226 


HELENA  } 


When  they  had  first  come  to  settle  in  Narbonne,  her  young  husband 
would  each  day  return  to  her  after  his  long  morning  study  with  Doctor 
Dubrusc,  like  a released  schoolboy.  He  would  come  laughing,  and  shout- 
ing, and  bounding  into  the  room,  declaring  that  he  must  indulge  himself 
with  some  noise  and  active  motion  after  so  still  a sitting.  He  would 
snatch  the  needle-work  or  book  out  of  her  hand,  whisk  her  round  the 
room,  give  her  half  a dozen  kisses,  bid  her  put  her  bonnet  on,  and  come 
out  with  him  that  instant  for  a long  walk  in  the  fields,  that  he  might 
give  his  voice  and  his  legs  relaxation.  He  declared  that  his  jaws  and 
his  limbs  became  cramped  with  the  inaction  to  which  they  had  been 
subjected  for  so  many  hours  ; that  his  eyes  ached  with  looking  upon  the 
stern  immobility  of  Doctor  Dubrusc’s  countenance,  or  the  eternal  monot- 
ony of  the  read  or  written  page  instead  of  the  bright  sunny  smiles  of 
his  Gabrielle ; that  his  ears  would  become  deaf  with  the  silence  of  that 
dull  old  mansarde,  and  with  longing  for  the  cheerful  sound  of  his  wife’s 
voice.  And  then  he  would  make  her  chatter  to  him,  as  they  walked 
along ; telling  him  of  all  that  had  happened  in  his  absence — of  the  neigh- 
bours she  had  seen— of  the  work  she  had  planned— of  the  drawing  she 
had  done — of  the  arrangements  she  had  made  in  their  little  household. 

But  gradually  this  boyish  gaiety  subsided  ; Gerard’s  youthful  spirit 
was  not  proof  against  the  diurnal  dullness  of  those  long  forenoons.  In- 
sensibly, the  silence  became  infectious,  the  sedentary  position  habitual ; 
and  he  would  return  home  spent  and  weary,  and  disinclined  to  talk,  as 
he  was  for  exertion.  The  afternoon  walks  ceased  to  be  proposed; 
Gerard  would  hang  over  his  wife’s  chair,  and  watch  her  needle  as  it  took 
stitch  after  stitch,  without  asking  her  to  throw  it  aside ; and  the  conver- 
sation languished,  when  only  she  was  the  talker.  The  change  was  so 
gradual,  and  Gentille-et-sage  was  so  slow  to  perceive  any  thing  amiss  in 
the  manner  of  one  she  loved  so  well,  and  likewise  so  little  accustomed 
to  urge  what  she  found  to  be  distasteful,  that  she  yielded  to  his  prefer- 
ence for  remaining  at  home,  and  his  growing  disinclination  to  talk ; 
never  discovering  that  he  was  altering,  until  the  change  had  actually 
taken  place.  There  was  no  change  in  his  affection  towards  her.  He 
loved  her  as  passionately,  as  devotedly  as  ever ; his  love  seemed  only 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


22  7 


intensified  by  liis  greater  sobriety  of  manner ; but  be  bad  altered  from 
tbe  light-hearted  youtb  to  the  staid  man — from  the  ardent  student  to  the 
grave  doctor.  He  was  as  kind  as  ever,  but  be  was  less  gay ; he  was 
thoughtful  rather  than  hopeful;  he  was  reflective,  instead  of  demon- 
strative. 

His  love  for  her  remaining  the  same,  Gabrielle  would  neither  have 
noted  nor  regretted  the  transformation  of  the  boy-lover  into  the  attached 
husband ; but  when  she  became  aware  of  the  shadow  which  had  thus  by 
degrees  fallen  upon  his  once  bright  young  spirit,  she  could  not  but  sigh 
when  she  remembered  their  joyful  existence  at  the  faim. 

She  would  now  have  ventured  to  urge  him  to  take  more  air  and 
exercise,  and  would  have  endeavoured  to  lead  him  into  lively  conversa- 
tion, instead  of  indulging  him  in  the  fits  of  silence  into  which  he  con- 
stantly fell ; but  she  herself  was  no  longer  so  capable  of  exertion  as  she 
had  been.  She  could  no  longer  walk  so  far,  or  chatter  away  in  so  con- 
tinuous a strain  as  formerly.  She  almost  felt  tempted  to  repine  at  the 
cause  of  her  incapability  for  much  walking  or  talking,  now  that  both 
might  possibly  conduce  to  rouse  her  husband  into  greater  cheerfulness, 
but  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  resign  the  hope  of  which  her  present 
state  was  the  signal.  She  contented  herself,  therefore,  with  looking  for- 
ward to  the  time  when  the  baby  she  expected  should  be  born ; in  the 
trust  that  its  existence  would  be  a source  of  new  joy  and  interest  to 
Gerard,  inspiring  him  afresh,  and  restoring  him  to  his  native  gaiety  and 
animation. 

The  happy  moment  arrives.  A little  girl  is  born.  Gabrielle  places 
the  infant  in  her  husband’s  arms,  and  as  Gerard  blesses  his  child,  and 
fondly  traces  its  mother’s  face  in  those  shapeless  features  that  bear  no 
impress  to  any  other  than  a parent’s  eye,  she  murmurs : — “ Like  me, 
Gerard  ! No  ; the  portrait  of  yourself!  I thought  of  our  favorite  Clo- 
tilde’s  words  : — true,  as  they  are  tender  and  beautiful ! 

‘ Voila  ses  traicts — son  ayr ! voila  tout  ce  que  j’ayme ! 

Feu  de  sou  ceil,  et  roses  de  son  teynt: 

D’ou  vient  m’en  esbahyr  ? aultre  qu’en  tout  luy-mesme, 

Peut-il  jamais  esclore  de  mon  seyn  ?’  ” 


228 


HELENA  J 


That  morning,  the  young  father  is  scarcely  able  to  settle  tranquilly 
to  his  study.  Though  his  transports,  which  would  fain  have  found  vent 
in  communicating  to  his  godfather  their  cause,  met  with  a check  when 
he  had  first  announced  the  tidings. 

“ Give  me  joy,  sir  !”  said  Gerard,  as  he  entered  the  mansarde.  “ I 
am  a father  ! Gabrielle  has  brought  me  a little  girl  this  morning  ! I 
have  a baby  born  !” 

“ A baby?  Pshaw  ! What’s  the  use  of  a baby?”  muttered  Doctor 
Dubrusc  ; “ Don’t  talk  stuff!  Write  !” 

Gerard  tried  to  obey,  and  to  work  steadily ; but  just  as  a little  hand, 
with  its  fairy  nails,  joints,  fingers,  and  thumb,  all  in  mimic  miniature 
was  shaping  itself  in  fancy  upon  the  page  before  him,  the  apparition  of 
a bony,  shrivelled,  dry  hand,  grimy  with  snuff,  and  shiny  with  un- 
washed use,  spread  itself  on  the  leaf,  seeming  gigantic  in  its  proportions, 
after  the  baby  image  it  replaced. 

“Know  as  much  as  I do  now!  Needn’t  come  anymore!  Can’t 
teach  you  much  more  ! Practice  better  than  reading  or  writing  now ! 
Practise  ! Find  patients  !” 

“ I have  some  patients  already,  sir said  Gerard.  “ After  leaving 
you  of  a day,  I go  my  rounds ; and  they  are  fast  increasing.” 

“ All  the  better ! Practise ! Learn  more  than  by  coming  here ! 
Needn’t  come  !” 

“ But  I hope  you  will  let  me  come  and  see  you  often,  still,  god- 
father. I can  never  thank  you  sufficiently  for  all  you  have  done 
for  me.  Though  you  have  taught  me  so  much,  and  so  untiringly, 
yet  I must  still  come  and  intrude  upon  your  time ; I must  still  come 
to  see  you.” 

“ Want  to  see  me, — Come  !”  And  Doctor  Dubrusc  resumed  the  pe- 
rusal of  his  book,  precisely  as  he  had  done  about  a year  before,  on  Ge- 
rard’s first  arrival  in  Narbonne. 

His  pupil  and  godson  now  pursued  his  medical  career  in  good  ear- 
nest. His  practice  increased,  his  patients  grew  more  and  more  numer- 
ous; he  gave  unremitting  attention  to  their  cases,  by  devoting  his 
thoughts  to  the  consideration  of  symptoms,  and  devising  means  of  cure, 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


229 


when  he  was  absent,  as  well  as  by  the  care,  patience,  and  kindness, 
which  he  bestowed  while  attending  the  bedside  of  the  sufferers. 

Gerard  was  an  enthusiast  in  his  profession.  He  believed  the  art  of 
healing  to  be  a science  divine.  He  regarded  the  privilege  of  cure  as 
something  partaking  of  godlike  power.  He  looked  upon  his  patients  as 
sacred  deposits  in  his  hands,  alike  blessed  in  a vouchsafed  recovery,  and 
conferring  a blessing  on  him  who  was  the  instrument  of  Providence  for 
their  rescue.  The  exalted  light  in  which  he  viewed  the  functions  of#his 
calling,  led  him  to  discharge  its  duties  conscientiously,  reverently ; he 
labored  with  scarcely  less  piety  and  devotion  of  spirit,  than  he  might 
have  done^  had  his  ministry  been  a religious  one, — for  holy  did  he  feel  a 
physician’s  vocation  to  be.  Its  skill  puts  in  requisition  the  highest  fa- 
culties of  the  human  intellect,  as  its  administration  calls  forth  the  ten 
derest  sympathies  of  the  human  heart.  The  able  and  the  kind  physician 
is  a human  benefactor.  He  garners  up  his  treasures  of  learning  and 
experience,  that  he  may  dispense  them  again  to  his  suffering  brethren. 
He  comes  with  his  timely  succour,  cheering  both  body  and  spirit  with 
the  single  boon  of  health.  He  raises  the  sick  man  from  his  couch  of 
pain,  and  sends  him  forth  elate  and  vigorous  for  fresh  enjoyment  of  ex- 
istence. He  restores  the  ailing,  and  rejoices  their  despondent  friends. 
He  gives  new  life  to  the  sick,  and  revives  the  hopes  of  those  who  depend 
on  the  sick  man’s  recovery  for  subsistence.  He  banishes  illness,  and 
holds  death  at  bay. 

Conceiving  such  to  be  a physician’s  privileges  and  duties,  Gerard  felt 
how  especially  they  called  him  to  their  exercise  among  the  poor  and 
helpless.  He  accordingly  devoted  himself  almost  exclusively  to  the  care 
of  this  forlorner  class  of  sufferers,  and  sought  rather  those  who  needed 
his  aid  without  the  means  of  paying  for  it,  than  those  who  could  sum- 
mon and  remunerate  its  services. 

His  skill,  his  tenderness,  his  charitable  care,  made  him  renowned 
among  the  destitute  population  of  Narbonne ; although  he  had  as  yet 
obtained  little  fame  or  employment  among  its  wealthier  inhabitants. 
But  his  time  was  so  fully  occupied  with  attendance  upon  his  pa- 
tients— as  numerous  as  they  were  (pecuniarily)  unprofitable,  that  he 


230 


HELENA  I 


had  now  less  and  less  opportunity  of  leisure  at  home  with  Gabrielle 
than  ever. 

His  personal  vigilance  of  the  cases  he  had  in  hand  was  unwearied ; 
and  when  he  was  not  engaged  in  visiting  a patient’s  sick  room,  his 
thoughts  were  anxiously  engaged  with  the  circumstances  of  the  disorder  ; 
with  its  origin,  with  its  progress,  with  the  means  it  admitted  of  relief, 
with  the  hope  of  its  ultimate  cure. 

It  was  therefore  fortunate  for  Gentille-et-sage  that  the  birth  of  her 
little  girl  afforded  herself  a great  resource  from  the  solitude  to  which 
the  incessant  preoccupation  of  her  husband  would  otherwise  have  con- 
demned her.  In  its  smiles,  in  its  cooings,  in  its  first  recognition,  in  its 
growing  love,  in  ministering  to  its  comforts,  and  in  developing  its  facul- 
ties, the  heart  of  the  mother  found  full  content.  To  Gerard,  also,  at 
first,  his  infant  daughter  had  been  an  object  of  great  interest ; he  had 
called  her  by  his  mother’s  name — Helena  ; and  had  taken  great  delight 
in  watching  her  baby  beauty,  and  dawning  intelligence.  The  child  had 
thus  fulfilled  the  hope  which  Gabrielle  had  conceived  from  the  prospect 
of  her  advent ; but  not  long  did  the  influence  last ; soon  the  father’s 
thoughts  were  again  absorbed  in  his  vocation  ; and  though  Gerard’s  love 
was  firmly  and  entirely  fixed  upon  his  wife  and  child,  they  possessed  but 
little  of  his  society  or  attention. 

There  was  one  demand  upon  his  time  and  thought,  however,  which 
no  preoccupation  ever  led  him  to  disregard.  However  busy,  however 
anxious,  Gerard  never  failed  to  find  a moment  for  calling  upon  Doctor 
Dubrusc.  Three  or  four  days  never  elapsed  without  his  visiting  the  old 
mansarde.  Though  his  godfather’s  brevity  of  speech  promised  but 
little  gratification  to  either  party  from  conversation,  yet  Gerard  never 
neglected  to  go  and  see  the  old  man,  to  tell  him  the  news,  to  sit  with 
him  a few  minutes  ; to  let  him  see,  in  short,  that  he  was  not  unmindful 
of  what  he  owed  to  his  instruction,  and  that  he  felt  both  gratefully  and 
affectionately  towards  him,  spite  of  the  eccentricity  which  might  choose 
to  repulse  the  expression  of  such  feelings. 

On  the  occasion  of  one  of  these  visits  to  the  old  mansarde,  when  the 
little  Helena  had  attained  to  an  age,  which  placed  her  beyond  that  state 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


231 


of  babyhood  which  was  avowedly  objectionable  to  Doctor  Dubrusc,  when 
she  could  trot  about,  and  speak  plain,  and  understand  every  thing  that 
was  said,  when  she  had  become,  in  fact,  a very  pretty,  lively,  amusing 
child,  Gerard  thought  he  would  take  his  little  girl  with  him  to  see  his 
old  friend. 

It  happened  to  be  the  doctor’s  birthday,  or  saint’s-day ; and  in  ob- 
servance of  a national  custom,  Gerard  stopped  in  the  market-place,  and 
bought  a bouquet  of  flowers,  which  he  might  take  with  him  to  present  to 
his  godfather,  when  he  wished  him  joy. 

He  gave  the  nosegay  to  Helena,  while  he  carried  her  up  the  six 
flights  of  steep  stairs  which  led  to  the  doctor’s  attic  dwelling.  He  set 
her  on  her  feet,  when  they  reached  the  door  of  the  mansarde,  and 
opening  it,  bade  her  take  in  the  flowers,  and  souhaiter  le  bon  jour  a 
Monsieur, 

The  child  obeyed  ; running  across  the  room,  looking  up  in  the  old 
man’s  face,  and  presenting  the  birthday  offering,  with  pretty  smiling 
looks,  and  tolerably  articulate  words  ; for  Helena  was  not  at  all  shy  with 
strangers. 

u What  do  you  want  here,  child  ? Who  are  you 
She  is  my  little  daughter  said  Gerard.  “ I thought  you’d  like 
to  see  her,  sir,  now  she’s  no  longer  a baby.  Helena,  sir  ; my  child.” 

“ Child  ! What’s  the  use  of  a child  ? Go  away,  child said  Doc- 
tor Dubrusc, 

Helena  did  not  move,  but  stood  there,  staring  at  the  old  man,  as  he 
did  at  her. 

“ Do  you  hear  me,  child  ? Go  away  !”  repeated  the  doctor ; but  in  a 
less  gruff  tone  than  before. 

Still  Helena  did  not  move.  She  gave  a short  little  nod ; then  an- 
other. u Ess ; I hear  you said  she. 

“ What  are  you  nodding  at,  child  ?”  said  the  doctor. 

u At  you she  replied. 

u What  d’ye  stand  nodding  at  me  for?  Go  !”  said  the  old  man. 

“ Ess,  I’m  going said  Helena,  with  a succession  of  rapid  little 
nods,  as  she  turned  towards  the  door ; then  suddenly  coming  back,  she 


232 


HELENA  \ 


went  close  to  the  old  doctor,  leaned  against  his  knee,  held  up  her  mouth 
towards  him,  and  said : — “ Kiss  Nenna  ’fore  she  goes.” 

“ Kiss  ye,  child  ! Get  along  with  you  !”  But  though  the  old  man 
said  this  with,  much  surprise,  there  was  no  harshness  in  his  voice,  nor 
did  he  draw  back  from  her  as  he  uttered  the  words. 

The  little  girl,  judging,  as  most  children  do,  rather  from  manner 
than  words,  and  finding  no  very  formidable  repulse  in  the  former,  pro- 
ceeded to  clamber  on  to  his  knee,  repeating “ Kiss  Nenna  ’fore  she 
goes  ! Well,  then,  kiss  Nenna  ’fore  she  goes  !” 

The  old  doctor  gave  a little  stealthy  bashful  glance  at  Gerard  ; and 
seeing  him  apparently  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  a map  that  hung 
against  one  of  the  dusty  walls,  he  ventured  to  let  his  face  stoop  towards 
that  of  the  child ; who,  hugging  him  round  the  neck,  and  giving  him  a 
hearty  kiss  on  his  wrinkled  cheek,  slid  down  from  his  knee,  saying : — 
“ Not  angry  with  Nenna  ; she  go  now.”  She  went  to  her  father,  put  her 
hand  in  his,  and  led  him  towards  the  door,  looking  back  at  the  old  man 
with  a repetition  of  her  series  of  short  nods,  as  she  said : — ■“  Good  bye, 
good  bye  !”  And  then  she  and  her  father,  who  repeated  her  salutation, 
quitted  the  mansarde,  leaving  Doctor  Dubrusc  staring  silently  after 
them. 

Next  morning,  nothing  would  suit  Helena,  but  her  father  must  give 
her  some  sous.  Gerard  was  going  out  to  his  usual  round  of  patients ; 
and  he  could  not  stay  to  listen  to  what  his  little  girl  asked.  “ I don’t 
know  what  she  is  talking  about,  Gabrielle  said  he  to  his  wife.  u Make 
out  what  she  says,  and  give  her  what  she  wants.  I think  she  is  asking 
for  money ; though  what  such  a child  as  that  can  want  money  for,  is 
more  than  I can  comprehend,”  added  he,  as  he  left  the  house. 

u Is  it  money  you  are  asking  for,  Nenna  mine?”  said  her  mother. 
u Ess,  chere  maman ; give  Nenna  four  sous,  please said  the  child. 
“ What  do  you  want  them  for,  my  Helena  ? Are  they  for  the  poor 
sick  fruitiere  yonder  ?” 

Little  Helena  shook  her  head  j but  continued  to  hold  out  her  hand 
for  the  money. 

“ Not  for  her?”  said  Gabrielle. 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


233 


“No;  papa  takes  care  of  her;  she  don’t  want  any  more  than  he 
gives  her ;”  said  Helena,  with  a little  knowing  look ; “ he  never  lets 
poor  people  want  money — I’ve  heard  you,  mamma,  say  so.  He’s  a good 
kind  papa.  But  Nenna  wants  you  to  give  her  four  sous  for  her  own 
self,  chere  maman.” 

“ Little  coaxer  !”  said  her  mother,  giving  Helena  the  money ; which 
the  child  had  no  sooner  obtained,  than  she  put  up  her  mouth  with  her 
usual  little  speech : — ■“  Kiss  Nenna  ’fore  she  goes  !”  and  her  valedictory 
nod,  and  “ Good-bye  !”  and  then  trotted  demurely  out  of  the  house-door, 
which,  as  is  usual  in  southern  places,  stood  wide  open  all  day. 

Gabrielle, — accustomed  to  see  her  little  daughter  step  across  the 
door-sill  whenever  it  pleased  her  to  go  and  play  with  the  neighbours, 
who  loved  the  child’s  innocent  prattle  and  its  pretty  face,  and  who 
encouraged  her  to  come  and  linger  about  with  them, — said  no  word  to 
prevent  Helena’s  departure,  imagining  that  she  was  only  bent  upon  some 
ordinary  expedition,  a door  or  two  off. 

The  little  girl,  however,  went  in  a very  grave  and  orderly  manner 
straight  down  the  street ; then,  at  an  equally  determined  pace,  she 
turned  the  corner ; and  so  on,  until  she  came  to  the  market-place  ; 
where  she  made  her  way  to  the  flower-stall,  at  which  she  had  observed 
her  father  make  his  purchase  on  the  previous  day. 

She  made  her  selection  with  a very  discreet  air,  resting  her  chin 
upon  the  ledge  of  the  board,  and  peering  carefully  over  all  the  heaps  it 
displayed  ; and  when  she  had  fixed  upon  the  brightest  and  gayest  bunch 
there,  she  pointed  it  out  to  the  presiding  marchande  de  fleurs,  requested 
her  to  reach  it  down  to  her,  and  delivering  the  prix-fixe, — the  requisite 
four  sous,  she  trotted  off  again  with  a sobriety  of  pride  in  her  bargain 
that  would  have  done  honor  to  a grown  lady  returning  from  market. 

Not  very  long  after  this  transaction,  as  Doctor  Dubrusc  was  sitting  as 
usual  in  his  solitary  mansarde,  poring  over  his  book,  he  heard  a stamp, — 
creak, — stamp  ; stamp, — creak, — stamp  ; coming  up  his  crazy  stairs,  as 
if  some  foot  approached,  that  was  only  satisfied  when  its  fellow  foot  was 
planted  safely  on  each  stair,  as  it  was  gained,  at  a time.  He  listened; 
then  he  heard  a pattering  to  and  fro  on  the  landing-place  outside  his 


234 


HELENA  J 


room-door,  as  if  a pair  of  little  feet  were  trotting  about  in  some  uncer* 
tainty.  A pause ; then  came  a dubious  pat,  a3  of  a small  open  hand ; 
then  the  spread  fingers  were  closed,  and  a more  assured  thump,  as  of  a 
little  clenched  fist,  made  itself  heard. 

“ Come  in  !”  said  Doctor  Dubrusc. 

Nobody  came  in,  and  nobody  answered ; but  a dull,  though  some- 
what heavier  thump  than  before,  was  to  be  distinguished  on  one  of  the 
lower  panels,  as  if  some  short  individual  had  applied  the  most  ponder- 
ous portion  it  could  find  about  its  person  in  a still  more  vigorous  ap- 
peal againt  the  door. 

u Come  in,  I tell  you !”  repeated  Doctor  Dubrusc. 

“ I can’t !”  said  a childish  voice  ; 16 1 can’t  reach  the  lock  ! Come 
and  open  it  for  me  !’* 

In  astonishment  more  than  in  hesitation,  the  old  doctor  remained 
seated  where  he  was  ; while  he  heard  the  dull  thumps  renewed ; lump- 
ing and  bumping  between  every  word,  as  if  the  short  individual  were 
determined  to  push  its  way  in,  and  take  no  denial. 

u Come — and  open — the  door  ! Come  (thump),  and  open  (lump), 
the  door  (bump) !” 

Then  followed  a series  of  sullen,  silent,  resolute  thump-lump-bumps, 
that  threatened  to  effect  a breach  in  the  worm-eaten  door  that  guarded 
the  entrance  to  Doctor  Dubrusc’s  den,  spite  of  the  diminutive  size  of  the 
battering-ram  that  was  now  applied  so  unrelentingly  against  the  crazy 
portal. 

u I do  believe  it’s  that  persevering  toad  of  a child  !”  exclaimed  the 
old  doctor ; beguiled  by  wonder  into  a longer  speech  than  he  had 
uttered  for  years. 

But  though  Doctor  Dubrusc  said  this  amidst  a torrent  of  pishes  and 
pshaws,  it  was  remarkable  that  his  face  glowed  with  a look  that  it  had 
not  worn  for  many  a day  ; and  his  furrowed  cheeks,  lean  and  sallow 
with  hours  of  solitary  study  and  brooding  disappointment,  were  lit  up 
with  an  expression  that  made  them  look  almost  smooth  and  comely. 

He  arose  from  his  chair,  with  this  look  beaming  in  his  eyes,  while 
on  his  lips  lingered  Hark  how  she  keeps  on  ! She’ll  have  the  door 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


235 


down ! She’ll  burst  it  in  ! And  then  the  brat’ll  fall  through,  and 
hurt  herself !” 

It  was  curious  that  this  idea  did  not  appear  to  afford  the  old  doc- 
tor so  much  pleasure,  as,  to  judge  by  his  mode  of  speaking  of  her,  it 
might  have  done  ; on  the  contrary,  he  hastened  his  steps  towards  the 
door,  though  he  continued  to  murmur,  “ I never  met  with  so  persever- 
ing an  animal  as  this  child  is,  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life !” 

Considering  that  Doctor  Dubrusc  had  met  with  few  children  in  the 
course  of  his  life,  and  even  among  those  few,  had  been  slow  to  form  any 
acquaintance  with  their  dispositions  and  habits,  it  was  not  wonderful 
that  he  had  never  happened  to  encounter  one  so  persevering  as  his  god- 
son’s little  daughter. 

But  in  truth,  Helena  was  singularly  given  to  persist  in  any  point 
that  she  had  once  resolved  upon ; and  without  being  either  obstinate  or 
wilful,  she  was  remarkable  for  perseverance,  and  unswerving  pursuit  of 
that  upon  which  she  had  once  set  her  heart. 

And  so,  day  after  day,  did  this  little  creature  come  trotting  out  to 
bring  the  old  man  (to  whom  she  seemed  to  have  taken  a strange  fancy) 
a nosegay  from  the  market ; day  after  day,  she  would  come  tramping 
up  the  old  creaking  stairs ; day  after  day,  she  bumped  at  the  door  until 
Doctor  Dubrusc  came  grumbling  to  open  it  for  her,  when  she  would 
toddle  in,  give  him  the  flowers,  hold  up  her  mouth,  saying: — “Kiss 
Nenna  ’fore  she  goes,”  and  then  toddle  out  again,  nodding  and  bidding 
good  bye. 

Whether  it  was  that  this  brevity  of  speech  and  visit  on  her  part,  ap- 
pealed to  the  doctor’s  own  taste  for  limited  intercourse,  it  is  impossible 
to  say ; but  certain  it  is  that  these  interviews  took  place,  to  the 
mutual  satisfaction  of  the  old  man  and  the  child,  without  intermission 
from  the  day  her  father  had  first  introduced  Helena  there,  until  the 
one  when  the  meetings  came  to  an  unavoidable  close, — as  sad,  as  it  was 
abrupt. 

One  morning,  when  the  little  girl,  having  been  able  to  obtain  no 
answer  to  her  repeated  calling  and  thumping,  had  succeeded  in  bunch- 
ing the  door  open,  she  went  towards  her  old  friend  the  doctor,  whom 


236 


HELENA  * 


she  found  seated  in  his  usual  place  by  the  table ; but  instead  of  lean 
ing  forward  oyer  his  book,  he  was  resting  against  the  back  of  his  chair, 
his  head  drooping  upon  one  shoulder.  She  spoke  to  him,  offering  him 
her  flowers ; but  he  neither  answered,  nor  looked  towards  her,  nor 
stirred  at  all. 

She  thought  he  was  asleep  ; but  finding  she  could  not  wake  him  by 
calling  to  him,  or  plucking  him  by  the  skirts,  she  went  and  got  some  big 
books,  which  she  piled  up  by  his  side,  until  she  had  made  a heap  high 
enough  to  let  her  get  up  and  reach  his  face.  When  she  touched  it,  she 
found  it  cold  as  the  marble  brink  of  the  fountain  in  the  marketplace, 
and  then  she  knew  that  he  was  dead  ! 

Helena’s  screams  soon  brought  the  people  who  occupied  the  re- 
mainder of  the  house  into  the  mansarde  of  their  fellow-lodger  ; and  they 
were  speedily  engaged  in  endeavours  to  restore  the  old  man,  who,  they 
hoped,  had  only  fainted.  One  of  them  hurried  for  medical  assistance, 
and  soon  returned  bringing  Helena’s  father,  Gerard.  He  immediately 
pronounced  that  life  had  been  for  some  time  extinct ; and,  appointing 
some  one  to  watch  the  body,  until  the  proper  authorities  could  be  in- 
formed of  the  sudden  death  of  Doctor  Dubrusc,  in  order  that  steps 
might  be  taken  for  the  funeral,  Gerard  took  his  little  girl  home  in  his 
arms. 

On  looking  over  the  papers  of  his  deceased  friend,  Gerard  found, 
within  a leaf  of  the  book  that  lay  open  before  Doctor  Dubrusc  at  the 
time  of  his  death,  one  which  proved  to  be  a will,  the  body  of  which  was 
regularly  and  formally  drawn  up,  signed,  and  attested. 

It  appeared,  by  its  date,  to  have  been  executed  soon  after  the  doc- 
tor’s last  visit  to  Perpignan.  It  spoke  in  some  bitterness  of  Monsieur 
Gerard’s  cooled  friendship  ; of  its  truly  surmised  cause ; of  the  proba- 
bility that  his  godson  would  follow  in  the  steps  of  his  father,  and  never 
seek  nor  require  his  aid ; and  then  the  will  went  on  to  bequeath  the 
whole  of  his  property,  which  was  of  large  value,  to  the  foundation  of  a 
school  of  medicine  in  his  native  town,  Narbonne. 

In  a codicil,  also  regularly  executed,  and  dated  immediately  subse- 
quent to  Gerard’s  arrival  in  Narbonne,  he  rescinded  his  original  bequest, 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


237 


in  his  godson’s  favor,  making  him  his  sole  heir  and  legatee.  After  that, 
lower  down,  and  seeming  to  have  been  added  when  his  pupil  had  gained 
a numerous  circle  of  patients, — which  the  old  man  supposed  would  prove 
only  the  commencement  of  so  large  a practice  that  there  was  every  pros- 
pect of  his  godson’s  accumulating  a large  fortune  of  his  own, — was 
written,  in  form  of  a codicil,  but  unsigned,  and  unwitnessed,  this  sen- 
tence : — ‘U  Gerard  won’t  want  it.  Let  it  be  for  the  school  of  medicine.” 
Still  lower,  on  the  parchment,  appeared,  in  unsteady  characters,  the 
words  : — “ If  Helena,  Gerard’s  daughter,  should ” 

The  pen  seemed  to  have  been  flung  aside,  or  dropped,  here,  as  if  the 
writer  had  felt  unequal  to  the  task  of  penning  more  at  the  time  ; and 
Gerard  could  not  help  thinking  that  it  was  in  the  act  of  inscribing  these 
very  words,  that  his  old  friend  had  been  seized  with  the  attack  of  illness 
which  had  ended  in  death. 

Gerard,  with  his  characteristic  probity,  resolved  that  the  wealth  of 
Dr.  Dubrusc  should  be  devoted  to  the  purpose  originally  stated  in  the 
body  of  the  will ; taking  no  advantage,  which  perhaps  might  have  been 
legally  claimed, — or  at  any  rate,  litigated,  on  the  strength  of  the  first 
codicil,  which  was  formal  in  all  respects.  He  could  no’t  have  felt  hon- 
estly happy  in  availing  himself  of  the  kind  intention  of  his  godfather, 
vhile  a doubt  existed  as  to  whether  that  intention  had  been  altered. 
Whether  the  alteration  might  not  have  been  made  under  a false  repre- 
sentation of  Gerard’s  circumstances,  seemed  to  him  a question  nowise 
affecting  the  case  ; that  his  godfather’s  wishes  in  the  disposal  of  his 
money  should  be  strictly  and  exclusively  fulfilled,  was  his  sole  con- 
sideration. 

He  accordingly  set  zealously  to  work  to  promote  the  foundation  of  a 
school  of  medicine  from  the  funds  which  his  friend’s  property  produced ; 
and  in  discovering  how  large  a sum  this  really  was,  he  could  not  refrain 
from  a bitter  smile  at  the  thought  of  the  mistaken  worldliness  which  had 
actuated  the  Perpignan  banker  in  his  secession  from  amity  with  the 
eccentric  old  doctor. 

But  while  Gerard’s  sense  of  honesty  thus  bade  him  yield  all  claim 
upon  his  godfather’s  legacy,  and  taught  him  to  ensure  its  appropriation 


238 


HELENA  ! 


elsewhere,  he  was  at  that  very  time  so  far  from  not  needing  it  himself,  that 
there  was  no  period  of  his  life  when  its  possession  would  have  been  more 
useful  to  him.  So  little  prospect  was  there  of  his  making  a large  for- 
tune, that  his  income  was  next  to  nothing  from  his  custom  of  giving  his 
chief  attention  to  the  maladies  of  the  poor.  By  constant  devotion  of 
his  time  to  them,  instead  of  seeking  richer  patients,  he  had  contrived  to 
be  but  a poor  man  himself,  though  increasing  rapidly  in  experience  and 
ability. 

For  G-abrielle  and  himself  this  was  enough  ; neither  he  nor  Gentille- 
et-sage  caring  for  more  than  mere  competence.  But  just  at  this 
period  an  object  presented  itself  more  and  more  strongly  to  their  wishes, 
which  rendered  a sum  of  money  indispensable. 

Gerard  and  his  wife  had  once  in  each  year  indulged  themselves  with 
a visit  to  the  farm — to  the  village  where  Monsieur  le  Cure  lived — to  all 
their  favorite  haunts  thereabouts.  They  had  often  agreed  how  plea- 
sant a idling  it  would  be,  if  ever  they  should  be  able  to  return  and  make 
this  spot — the  scene  of  their  youthful  happiness — the  home  of  their 
old  age. 

Of  late,  this  scheme  had  won  still  more  upon  their  fancy  ; and  they 
longed  to  see  their  vision  of  retirement  realized,  while  they  were  still  of 
an  age  to  enjoy  it  fully. 

To  enable  him  to  carry  out  this  plan  at  once,  Dr.  Dubrusc’s  legacy 
offered  itself  in  opportune  temptation  ; but  Gerard’s  principles  of  honor 
were  not  of  that  kind  to  be  affected  by  a chance,  however  opportune, 
however  tempting.  He  had  no  sophistry  that  might  sanction  ill-doing, 
either  from  a conviction  of  expediency,  or  from  a pretence  of  pure  mo- 
tive. With  him  right  was  simply  right ; wrong,  simply  wrong.  He 
therefore  renounced  all  thought  of  Dr.  Dubrusc’s  money,  as  if  there  had 
never  bee#  any  question  of  its  by  possibility  accruing  to  him  ; and  only 
began  to  consider  whether  he  might  not  manage  to  earn  some  of  his 
own,  without  infringing  on  the  claims  which  his  poor  patients  had  on  his 
time  and  skill. 

He  was  earnest  in  this  desire,  on  Gabrieile’s  account,  as  he  saw  how 
much  pleasure  the  plan  afforded  her,  and  he  omitted  no  exertion  which 


THE  PHYSICIAN^  ORPHAN. 


239 


might  tend  to  the  object  in  view ; but,  just  then,  the  wealthier  inhabit 
ants  of  Narbonne  happened  to  enjoy  provokingly  good  health  ; besides, 
though  he  had  obtained  an  extensive  renown  among  the  pauper  popula- 
tion of  tue  town,  and  though  his  name  was  high  in  those  quarters  where 
squalor,  filth,  poor  diet,  and  want  of  fresh  air,  made  disease  rife,  and  had 
demanded  and  received  his  best  skill,  yet  his  fame  had  not  spread  much 
beyond  such  precincts,  and  hitherto,  the  principal  people  in  Narbonne 
knew  little  of  the  clever  physician  who  dwelt  among  them.  However, 
Gerard  strenuously  pursued  his  aim,  and  worked  harder  than  evei  :n  his 
profession,  with  the  hope  of  earning  enough  to  maintain  his  wife,  his 
child,  and  himself,  at  no  very  distant  day,  in  the  old  pavilion  of  the 
farm,  as  their  pleasant  home  ever  after. 

There  was  a spacious  public  garden  a little  way  out  of  the  town  of 
Narbonne,  where  Gentille-et-sage,  with  little  Helena  by  her  side,  often 
spent  a large  portion  of  the  day.  Here,  with  a view  to  her  child’s 
health,  and  her  own  (which  had  for  some  time  banefully  felt  a slow  but 
sure  effect  from  the  banishment  from  native  and  pure  country  air,  as 
well  as  the  constant  confinement  within  the  walls  of  a town  lodging), 
would  Gabrielle  and  her  little  girl  sit ; the  mother  working,  or  hearing 
Helena  say  her  lessons.  Sometimes  the  child  would  clamber  about  the 
baok  and  sides  of  the  seat — which  was  a sort  of  long  wooden  chair  with 
arms,  that  might  have  accommodated  half-a-dozen  persons ; sometimes, 
a game  of  ball,  or  battledore,  or  bilboquet,  would  engage  the  attention, 
and  exercise  the  limbs  of  the  little  Helena  ; while  the  mother  watched 
her  active  happy  child,  her  fingers  employed  in  knitting  some  winter 
comfort  for  its  father. 

One  afternoon,  when  Gabrielle  and  Helena  had  stationed  themselves 
in  their  favorite  nook — one  particular  corner  of  the  long  wooden  seat, 
which  was  shadily  situated  under  a tree, — a Bonne  and  her  charge,  a fine 
little  boy  about  a year  or  two  older  than  Helena,  approached  the  spot, 
and  sat  down  near  them. 

Gabrielle’s  basket,  knitting-ball,  and  one  or  two  other  articles  be- 
longing to  her,  lay  on  the  seat  beside  her.  She  would  have  drawn  them 
towards  her,  to  make  room  for  the  strangers,  but  as  there  was  plenty  of 
space  beyond,  she  left  all  still. 


240 


HELENA  I 


Presently  the  little  boy  collected  a quantity  of  pebbles  from  the 
gravel-path,  and  came  towards  the  bench  with  his  treasure  in  his  arms. 
He  deposited  the  heap  on  the  seat,  and  then  commenced  clearing  a space 
farther  on,  by  brushing  away  Gabrielle’s  basket,  ball,  &c.,  with  his  arm. 
taking  no  heed  that  the  articles  were  suddenly  tumbled  on  to  the  ground 
by  this  unceremonious  proceeding  on  his  part. 

For  some  time,  little  Helena  contented  herself  with  silently  remedy- 
ing the  mischief,  by  picking  up  her  mother’s  scattered  property,  and  re- 
nlacing  it  on  the  seat ; but  after  repeating  this  process  once  or  twice, 
and  finding  that  it  by  no  means  mended  matters,  as  the  boy  invariably 
brushed  them  down  again,  she  said  : — “ Take  care,  little  boy ; mamma’s 
basket  will  be  broken.” 

“ I want  room  to  build  a castle replied  the  boy,  giving  another 
clearing  nudge.  -Gabrielle  removed  the  basket  to  the  other  side  of  her, 
and  put  the  knitting-ball  into  her  apron-pocket,  without  speaking,  that 
she  might  observe  the  children. 

“ What  pretty  hair  you’ve  got !”  said  Helena  next ; after  having 
looked  with  admiration  at  the  boy’s  curls,  which  hung  down,  glossy  ? 
dark,  and  thick,  upon  his  shoulders.  “ How  bright,  and  how  long,  and 
how  soft  it  is  !”  added  the  little  girl,  touching  it,  and  smoothing  it  down 
with  her  fingers. 

“ Don’t ! you’ll  tangle  it said  the  boy,  drawing  away  his  head. 

u Fie,  master  Bertram  !”  exclaimed  his  Bonne ; “ let  the  little  girl 
admire  your  beautiful  hair  !” 

“ I shan’t ! Let  it  alone  !”  replied  master  Bertram. 

After  a pause,  during  which  Helena  had  shrunk  to  a little  distance, 
whence  she  tried  to  peer  at  what  he  was  doing,  she  said : — “ Are  you 
building  a castle  ?” 

“ Yes  ; don’t  you  see  I am?” 

u I can’t  well  see  so  far  off ; may  I come  nearer?”  asked  she. 

“ Take  care  you  don’t  jog,  then said  the  boy. 

Helena  comes  a little  closer  ; gets  a better  view  of  his  operations  ; 
becomes  greatly  interested  in  the  tottering  fortalice,  which  with  much 
careful  piling  together  of  pebble-stones  is  gradually  rearing  its  walls 


THE  PHYSICIAN^  ORPHAN. 


241 

beneath  the  boy’s  hands.  She  leans  forward,  watching  breathlessly; 
when,  being  a little  too  near  for  master  Bertram’s  convenience,  his 
sturdy  little  elbow  is  suddenly  stuck  in  her  chest,  to  remind  her  to  keep 
farther  back. 

She  obeys  the  warning  for  an  instant ; but  forgetting  caution  in  her 
eagerness  to  watch  the  progress  of  the  castle,  she  leans  too  forward,  and 
again  receives  a hint  in  her  chest  that  she  is  in  master  Bertram’s  way. 
The  blow  this  time  is  directed  with  such  unmistakeable  earnestness  of 
reproof,  that  the  little  girl  reels  back,  falls,  and  bruises  her  arm.  The 
Bonne  exclaims  ; Helena’s  mother  picks  her  up  and  asks  her  if  she’s 
hurt. 

“ No,  he  didn’t  mean  it;  did  you,  little  boy?  Here,  kiss  it,  and 
make  it  well !”  said  she,  holding  out  her  arm,  where  the  skin,  soiled  and 
grazed  by  the  gravel,  bore  sufficient  evidence  of  her  hurt. 

u It’s  bloody  and  dirty ; indeed  I shan’t  kiss  it,”  said  the  boy,  turn- 
ing away  to  finish  building  his  castle. 

Again  the  Bonne  said  : — “ Fie,  master  Bertram  !”  And  again  she 
was  satisfied  with  saying  it,  and  with  the  slight  effect  it  produced  upon 
master  Bertram  himself.  For  presently,  Bertram  was  as  busily  engaged 
as  ever  in  the  erection  of  the  pebble  stronghold,  and  Helena  was  again 
leaning  over  him,  forgetful  of  the  late  consequences  of  her  vicinity  to 
the  sturdy  little  elbow.  It  made  one  or  two  lunges  at  her,  from  which 
she  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  withdraw  in  time ; but  as  she  always 
had  the  hardihood  to  return  to  her  post  of  observation,  the  boy  at  length 
said : — “ Don’t  worry,  little  girl.  Don’t  you  see  the  wall  of  my  castle  is 
nearly  built  up  to  the  top?  Don’t  jog  so.  Go  and  pick  up  some  more 
stones  for  me.  I shan’t  have  half  enough  for  the  high  tower  I mean  to 
build  here.” 

And  accordingly,  for  some  time  after  that,  Helena  patiently  trotted 
to  and  fro  collecting  stones  in  the  skirt  of  her  frock,  and  bringing  them 
in  heaps  to  Bertram,  who  went  on  with  his  edifice  now,  in  peace,  and 
much  faster ; and  he  signified  his  approval  of  this  state  of  things  by 
graciously  accepting  her  contributions,  bidding  her  deposit  them  on  the 
bench  ready  to  his  hand,  and  then  to  go  for  more. 


242 


HELENA  : 


The  two  children  went  on  thus  for  some  time,  until  the  castle  was 
completed  to  master  Bertram’s  satisfaction ; when  Helena’s  proposal  to 
cut  out  some  paper  dolls  with  her  mother’s  scissors,  and  to  place  them 
inside  the  pebble  fortress  as  its  Baron  and  Baroness,  and  suite  of  re- 
tainers, was  negatived  by  master  Bertram’s  “ No,  no  ; that’s  stupid  work  ; 
dolls  are  only  fit  for  girls  ! What’s  this  ?” 

“ That’s  my  bilboquet ; you  can  have  it,  if  you  like,  to  play  with. 
And  here’s  a ball ; or  here’s  a battledore  and  shuttlecock ; if  you  like 
them  better.”  Master  Bertram  seized  the  offered  toys ; and  became 
amicable  with  his  new  acquaintance ; letting  her  be  his  playfellow,  by 
permitting  the  little  girl  to  run  and  fetch  his  ball  when  he  tossed  it  up 
high,  and  it  fell  at  an  inconvenient  distance ; or  to  pick  up  the  shuttle- 
cock, when  it  dropped  upon  the  ground  in  consequence  of  his  failing  to 
hit  it,  and  by  other  such  little  sociabilities,  and  condescending  equalities 
which  he  established  between  them  in  the  games  they  had  together. 

Meantime,  while  familiarity  was  growing  between  the  two  children, 
the  Bonne  seated  herself  rather  nearer,  on  the  long  bench,  to  the  corner 
where  Gabrielle  sat,  and  entered  into  conversation  with  her. 

The  Bonne  began  with  the  theme  always  most  agreeable  to  a mother’s 
ear  ; one,  in  which  she  rarely  discerns  hyperbole. 

“ Ah,  madame,”  said  she,  “ what  an  amiable  child  is  your  little 
daughter  ! What  grace  ! What  sprightliness  ! And  what  beauty.  An 
absolute  nymph ! And  what  goodness ! What  sweetness ! What 
patience  and  forgiveness  of  pain  and  injury  ! An  absolute  angel ! Ah, 
madame  ! How  fortunate  you  are,  to  possess  so  much  loveliness,  and 
so  much  virtue  united  in  the  person  of  that  seraph,  your  child  ! How 
rare  is  such  a union  ! There  is  master  Bertram,  for  instance.  He  is 
beautiful  as  the  day,  but  his  temper  is  deplorable.  He  has  the  adorable 
grace  and  loveliness  of  Cupid  himself,  but  he  has  not  that  gentleness, 
that  softness  which  inspires  love.  Alas,  no  ! he  is  rough  and  selfish  !” 

“ He  has  been  spoiled,  perhaps — indulged  too  much  ?”  said  Gen- 
tille-et-sage  ; u and  yet,”  added  she  with  a little  sigh,  u indulgence  ought 
not  to  spoil  a grateful  disposition.” 

“ You  are  right,  dear  madame  ;”  said  the  Bonne.  u A good  heart  is 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


243 


not  spoiled  by  having  its  own  way.  But  where  every  kindness  is  re- 
ceived as  a right — where  attention  and  affectionate  service  are  claimed 
only  as  feudal  dues — when  faithful  domestics  are  treated  like  slaves — 
ah,  madame — then,  indeed,  too  much  power  entrusted  to  childish  hands 
is  injudiciously  fostering  native  haughtiness,  caprice,  and  selfishness, 
and  encouraging  tyranny.” 

The  sentimental  and  sententious  Bonne  went  on  to  explain  to  Ga- 
brielle,  that  her  charge,  master  Bertram,  was  sole  heir  of  an  ancient 
family,  and  only  child  of  the  count  and  countess  of  Bousillon.  That 
he  was  inordinately  indulged,  and  that,  in  consequence  his  natural 
defects — those  of  pride,  self-will,  want  of  generosity,  and  disdain  of 
those  beneath  him  in  birth — had  been  enhanced  rather  than  repressed. 
She  spoke  of  his  mother,  the  countess,  as  a virtuous  gentlewoman ; and 
of  his  father,  the  count,  as  a noble  gentleman,  a brave  soldier,  and  one 
in  high  honor  at  court,  possessing  the  confidence  and  friendship  of  the 
king  himself.  She  told  Gabrielle  that  his  lordship,  the  count  of  Bou- 
sillon, was  at  present  suffering  from  a disorder  which  had  originated  in 
a severe  wound  in  the  chest  that  he  had  received  on  his  first  battle-field, 
some  years  since  ; and  that  he  had  quitted  his  chateau  in  Bousillon  to 
sojourn  for  a time  at  Narbonne,  in  the  hope  that  he  might  receive  benefit 
from  the  change  of  air,  which  had  been  recommended  to  him.  The 
count  had  been  accompanied  hither  by  his  countess,  who  was  a devoted 
wife  and  mother,  and  by  his  little  son,  from  whom  his  parents  could  not 
bear  to  be  separated. 

Many  times,  after  that  day,  Gabrielle  and  Helena  met  the  Bonne 
and  her  charge  in  the  public  garden  ; and,  Gabrielle’s  pleasant  manners 
soon  winning  the  good  graces  of  the  Bonne,  as  little  Helena’s  good- 
humour  rendered  her  an  agreeable  play-fellow  to  master  Bertram,  it 
came  to  pass  that  the  countess,  ere  long,  heard  a good  deal  from  her  son 
of  the  little  girl  he  had  found  in  the  gardens,  and  from  her  Bonne  of 
the  little  girl’s  mother,  who  seemed  to  be  quite  a superior  kind  of  per- 
son— quite  a lady,  indeed,  though  only  a poor  physician’s  wife,  as  she 
had  by  chance  discovered  her  to  be. 

The  countess  of  Bousillon,  whom  anxiety  for  her  husband’s  reco- 


244 


HELENA  ; 


very,  made  eager  to  seize  any  chance  of  cure,  was  struck  by  hearing 
that  the  stranger’s  husband  was  a physician  ; and  she  was  just  think- 
ing of  joining  her  little  son  in  his  visit  to  the  public  garden  that  day, 
to  learn  more  concerning  this  unknown  doctor,  when  her  thought 
was  confirmed  into  a determination  to  seek  him,  by  a singular  chance. 

It  happened  that  the  countess,  in  her  charitable  kindness,  having 
afforded  relief  to  a poor  woman  who  begged  of  her  in  the  street,  learned 
that  the  sick  husband  of  the  mendicant  had  been  attended  in  his  illness 
by  a certain  good  young  doctor,  who,  in  consideration  of  the  destitute 
state  of  his  patient,  would  take  no  fee.  lc  Ce  bon  monsieur  Gerard 
would  have  given  us  money,  instead  of  taking  any  from  us,”  said  the 
woman  ; “ but  I pretended  we  didn’t  want  it — for  I know  he  does — 
almost  as  much  as  we — having  a wife  and  child  to  support,  and  not  earn* 
ing  a great  deal  to  support  them  with.  No,  no,  he’s  too  generous  and 
good  to  the  poor,  to  have  made  any  thing  of  a purse  ; so,  rather  than 
take  from  him,  I said  we  had  enough  to  go  on  with — (may  le  bon  Dieu 
forgive  me  for  lying  !) — and  I came  out  into  the  streets  to  beg.  when 
you,  madame,  kindly  gave  me  this.” 

By  a little  questioning,  the  countess  soon  discovered  that  this  good 
young  doctor,  with  a wife  and  child  to  support,  was  no  other  than  the 
husband  of  the  interesting  stranger  whom  her  Bonne  had  mentioned  to 
her ; and  farther,  the  poor  woman  went  on  to  say  so  much,  of  her  own 
accord,  respecting  the  skill,  and  care,  and  attention,  which  this  good 
young  doctor  had  bestowed,  and  the  wonderful  relief  his  treatment  had 
yielded  her  suffering  husband,  that  the  countess  resolved  to  lose  no  time 
in  applying  to  him  in  behalf  of  her  own. 

Gerard,  upon  being  consulted  on  the  count  of  Rousillon’s  case,  with 
his  usual  integrity,  gave  it  as  his  opinion,  that  from  the  nature  of  the 
wound  itself,  and  partly  from  the  injudicious  treatment  it  had  hitherto 
received,  he  could  not  hope  to  perform  a complete  cure  ; that  his  lord- 
ship  would  in  all  probability  be  subject  to  relapses  during  the  remainder 
of  his  life,  even  should  he  survive  the  present  crisis ; but,  he  modestly 
added,  if  the  count  would  consent  to  place  himself  in  the  hands  of 
an  obscure  practitioner,  he  thought  he  could  undertake  to  relieve  suffer- 
ing, and  avert  immediate  danger. 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


245 


The  result  was  the  fulfilment  of  his  promise  ; and  the  count,  restored 
to  more  robust  health  than  he  had  ever  dared  to  hope  might  again  be 
his,  was  enabled,  at  the  end  of  a few  months’  sojourn  at  Narbonne,  to  re- 
turn with  his  wife  and  child  to  their  estate  at  Eousillon. 

The  noble  family,  on  taking  leave,  testified  their  gratitude  to  their 
benefactor,  by  loading  him  with  affectionate  proffers  of  friendship,  and 
assurances  of  gratitude ; by  an  earnestly-expressed  hope  of  seeing  him 
at  no  very  remote  period,  as  a guest  at  the  chateau  de  Eousillon,  and  by 
a handsome  sum  of  money,  proportionate  to  their  estimation  of  the 
benefit  they  had  received  at  his  hands. 

The  chateau  de  Eousillon  being  situated  at  no  very  great  distance 
from  G-abrielle’s  native  home,  G-erard  imparted  to  his  new  acquaint- 
ances the  hope  he  had  of  accumulating  sufficient  to  come  and  reside 
permanently  in  their  vicinity ; and,  in  the  anticipation  of  one  day  be- 
coming neighbours  and  friends,  they  parted  mutually  pleased  with  each 
other. 

Time  wore  on,  and  still  Gerard  was  working  hard  with  his  cherished 
object  in  view.  Like  many  men  who  propose  to  themselves  the  acqui- 
sition of  competence,  of  retirement  with  independence,  they  leave  unde- 
fined what  is  in  reality  to  form  this  competence,  this  independence. 
They  assign  no  limit  to  the  yearly  income  which  is  to  suffice  for  all  their 
wishes  ; they  vaguely  speak  of  waiting  until  they  shall  have  earned 
enough  to  live  upon,  without  previously  calculating  what  annual  amount 
will  supply  means  of  subsistence,  or  computing  the  sum  requisite  to 
produce  such  annual  amount ; they  talk  of  moderate  desires,  simple 
tastes,  inexpensive  pleasures,  without  reckoning  costs,  or  asking  them- 
selves what  is,  in  fact,  the  style  of  living  which  will  fulfil  their  ideal 
of  enjoyment  in  existence. 

And  thus  went  on  Gerard  year  after  year ; without  perceiving  that 
life  itself  was  passing  in  the  acquirement  and  prospect  of  a living.  His 
was  a probation — an  awaiting  of  some  expected  future,  some  visionary 
period — rather  than  an  actuality,  a positive  state  of  being.  In  that  an- 
ticipated epoch  he  dwelt,  not  in  the  present  lapse  of  time ; he  noted  not 
that  the  cheek  of  his  wife  grew  ever  paler  and  more  attenuated  with 


246 


HELENA  ! 


abiding  in  a pent  town,  while  he  contemplated  her  ultimate  removal  to  her 
native  country  air  and  home  ; and  Gentille-et-sage  was  just  the  unselfish 
being  to  forbear  urging  her  own  condition  upon  his  notice,  whilst  he  him- 
self was  well  and  contented.  For  in  the  vision  of  this  ultimate  retire- 
ment with  his  beloved  Gabrielle,  in  the  present  work  of  attaining  this 
proposed  future  good  by  the  prosecution  of  his  profession,  in  the  daily 
thought  and  occupation  it  afforded  him,  and  in  the  sight  of  the  daily 
benefit  it  effected,  he  was  both  well  and  contented. 

The  sum  he  had  gained  by  his  attendance  on  the  count  Rousillon, 
was  the  foundation  of  his  fortune ; the  care  of  so  illustrious  a patient 
brought  him  patronage  from  others  of  equally  high  rank ; while  the 
wealthy  but  untitled  herd,  followed  in  the  track,  where  nobles  had  been 
their  precursors.  The  young  doctor  became  the  rage — the  fashion  ; he 
became  as  noted  as  he  had  been  neglected  ; and  at  length  the  very  title 
was  awarded  to  him,  which  he  had  once  dreamed  might  be  his  ; for  he 
became  known  as  the  eminent  physician — the  famous  Gerard  de  Nar- 
bonne. 

Alas,  for  poor  short-sighted  human  nature  ! It  sacrifices  its  best 
years  in  struggling  for  that  which  when  obtained,  time  has  rendered 
valueless  ! It  neglects  the  enjoyment  of  daily  life,  toiling  to  achieve  a 
remote  existence,  which  is  poisoned  in  its  approach  ! 

Gerard  now  possessed  a surname  which  might  grace  the  wife  for 
whose  sake  alone  he  prized  its  honors  ; he  had  amassed  a fortune 
large  enough  to  empower  him  to  establish  her  in  ease  and  even  luxury 
wherever  they  might  choose  to  fix  their  abode  ; but  in  the  very  moment 
of  his  awakening  to  a consciousness  that  he  had  attained  both  these  de- 
sired objects,  he  became  aware  that  she,  for  whom  he  had  coveted  their 
possession,  could  no  more  hope  to  share  them  long  with  him. 

Gerard  had  given  instructions  that  the  pavilion  should  be  prepared 
temporarily  for  their  reception,  as  he  meant  to  defer  refitting,  enlarge- 
ments, and  all  other  improvements,  until  they  themselves  should  be  on 
~the  spot  to  decide  upon  the  necessary  alterations.  He  was  in  all  the 
delight  of  prospectively  enjoying  the  happiness  which  such  a plan 
opened  to  them  both  ; when,  on  proposing  an  early  day  for  their  de- 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


247 


parture  to  take  possession  of  their  old-new  home,  he  found  that  Gabrielle 
was  compelled  reluctantly  to  acknowledge  that  she  was  too  weak  to 
undertake  a journey  just  then.  She  spoke  cheerfully  of  shortly  being 
better  able  to  bear  the  fatigue  ; but  Gerard,  once  his  attention  drawn 
to  the  subject  of  her  health,  perceived  with  alarm  many  symptoms, 
which  had  never  struck  him  till  now.  His  observation  had  been  so  con- 
centrated upon  the  cases  of  his  patients ; his  thoughts  had  been  so  much 
occupied  elsewhere,  that  he  had  failed  to  perceive  the  illness  which 
made  its  approach  beneath  his  very  eyes,  and  lurked  insidiously  beside 
his  own  hearth, 

Gabrielle  had  always  concealed  her  growing  failure  of  strength  under 
a sprightly  demeanour,  and  as  much  activity  of  carriage  as  she  could  as- 
sume ; while  her  natural  ease  of  manner,  simplicity,  and  gaiety  of  heart, 
had  seconded  her  innocent  deceit.  Her  husband,  looking  into  that 
smiling  face,  and  within  hearing  of  that  cheerful  sweet  voice,  did  not 
surmise  the  lassitude  of  limb,  and  debility  of  frame,  that  in  secret  op- 
pressed her.  We  all  know,  how  the  countenance  of  those  we  daily  see, 
let  them  be  loved  as  intensely  as  they  may, — nay,  the  rather  for  that 
intensity  of  love — -fails  to  strike  us  as  changing  in  appearance,  as  long 
as  affection  is  still  its  prevailing  expression.  The  fading  lustre  of  the 
eye  is  unnoticed,  while  love  lends  its  own  light  to  the  look  which  meets 
ours  ; the  lines  that  draw  and  contract  the  mouth  are  unseen,  when 
smiles  play  around  lips  uttering  nothing  but  kindness  and  cordiality. 
We  forget  to  look  for  traces  of  indisposition,  where  all  bespeaks  some- 
thing far  more  welcome  to  our  sight ; and  our  own  natural  shrinking 
from  aught  sinister  to  them,  refuses  to  acknowledge  the  approach  of 
danger,  helping  to  mislead  us  into  a fatal  confidence.  Comfort  and  as- 
surance of  heart  dwell  in  the  gaze  of  those  we  love  ; and  thus  it  comes, 
that  those  who  are  nearest  and  dearest  to  each  other,  are  not  unfre- 
quently  the  last  to  perceive  what  it  most  concerns  them  to  know — - 
threatened  ill  health. 

Totally  unaware  of  the  blow  about  to  be  dealt  him,  until  the  very 
moment  of  its  stunning  fall,  Gerard  had  hardly  been  aroused  to  per- 
ceive the  approach  of  the  foe  ; he  had  scarcely,  with  shuddering  ao 


248 


HELENA ! 


knowledged  the  presence  of  peril,  when  he  was  smitten  with  the  fnl] 
force  of  its  consummation.  Gabrielle’s  declining  symptoms  were  ab- 
ruptly aggravated  by  an  attack  of  fever  ; and  she  died  on  the  very  day 
of  their  proposed  return  to  their  native  home. 

Her  husband  sank  prostrate  under  this  unexpected  stroke  of  fate. 
Elis  usual  strength  of  mind  utterly  forsook  him.  He  yielded,  without  a 
struggle  to  his  grief,  and  lay  overwhelmed  and  unresisting,  struck  to  the 
earth  by  a misery  so  sudden  and  so  complete.  He  felt  alone  in  the 
world.  She,  who  had  alone,  of  all  the  world,  understood  and  entirely 
responded  to  his  nature  ; she,  whose  image  had  blended  so  completely 
with  his  every  thought,  that  (with  the  paradoxical  mood  of  intimate 
affection)  he  had  come  to  pay  her  as  little  outward  attention  as  he  did 
to  his  own  semblance  ; she,  who  had  become  so  integrally  a part  of 
himself  that  he  gave  her  no  more  external  regard  than  he  did  himself, 
was  now  torn  away  for  ever.  What  wonder  that  the  poor  remainder, 
the  writhing  wounded  other  self,  should  lie  there  in  anguish  as  acute 
as  if  actually  severed,  disrupted,  and  rent  asunder— henceforth  a bleed- 
ing mangled  fragment  of  being  ? . 

He  had  cast  himself  upon  the  ground  close  beside  the  bed,  upon 
which  she  had  breathed  her  last,  and  from  that  moment  had  never 
raised  his  head.  He  had  not  swooned  ; he  did  not  shed  a tear,  or  utter 
a sob  ; but  there  he  seemed  flung,  a broken  desolate  man,  bereft  of  that 
which  had  given  him  heart  and  vitality.  He  had  no  consciousness  of 
time,  of  aught  existing.  The  poor  neighbours  whom  the  young  couple 
had  attached  by  their  kindliness,  and  gentle  courtesy,  and  unostenta- 
tious benevolence,  offered  some  respectful  attempts  at  consolation  and 
sympathy  ; but  his  apathy  of  misery  awed  them,  and  they  pursued  in 
whispers  and  with  noiseless  steps  their  offices  about  the  dead,  while, 
after  their  first  unsuccessful  proffer,  they  only  from  time  to  time  ven- 
tured stealthy  glances  of  compassion  towards  the  prostrate  sufferer. 

Little  Helena  crept  towards  him,  and  sought  to  relieve  his  grief  and 
her  own,  by  sharing  its  pain  together  ; but  he  took  as  little  notice  of  her 
as  he  had  done  of  the  neighbours,  and  the  thought  of  his  child  seemed  to 
be  lost  in  that  of  the  wife  who  had  been  snatched  from  him.  He  actu  = 
ally  was,  as  he  felt,  thenceforward  alone  in  the  world. 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


249 


The  neighbours  feared,  that  when  he  should  see  them,  in  accordance 
with  their  national  custom,  ere  twenty-four  hours  had  elapsed,  withdraw 
the  body  for  interment — he  would  be  moved  to  some  violent  demonstra- 
tion of  despair  ; but  no,  in  beholding  her  death,  he  had  felt  the  full 
sting  of  her  loss,  and  the  mere  corporeal  form,  the  earthly  remains  of  her 
he  loved,  seemed  no  longer  to  him  to  be  Gabrielle — that  creature  whom 
he  had  worshipped — that  being  who  had  been  a part  of  his  own. 

When  night  came,  he  still  remained  there,  a heap  of  silent  sorrow — 
for  he  had  somehow  formed  a fierce  determination  never  to  occupy  a bed 
more.  They  had  placed  food  by  him — for  they  had  not  dared  to  urge 
it  upon  one  who  had  mutely  refused,  with  the  sullen,  incapable  look  of 
a young  bird  in  bondage.  They  had  left  him  at  length  alone,  to  deal  as 
he  best  might  with  his  strange  misery ; his  little  girl  only,  crouched  in 
one  corner  of  the  room,  watching  him  in  hopeless  ignorance  of  how  to 
offer  aid,  yet  unable  to  abandon  him,  and  instinctively  lingering  near 
him,  as  if  her  very  presence  could  help  to  guard  him  from  farther  evil. 
She  watched  until  her  strained  eyes  became  stiff  and  weary ; and 
then  the  childish  lids  gave  way,  drooped,  and  closed  in  sleep — profound 
as  it  was  involuntary.  She  had  thought  that  sorrow  for  her  dead  mo- 
ther, and  anxiety  for  her  unhappy  father,  would  have  surely  kept  her 
awake ; but  to  youthful  sorrow  and  anxiety  it  is  mercifully  granted  that 
they  shall  be  powerless  against  drowsiness,  and  they  have  thus  the  boon 
of  promoting  their  own  remedy. 

Through  the  watches  of  the  night  thus  remained  Gerard  and  his 
young  daughter ; the  one  wrapped  in  a deep  slumber,  the  other  in  his 
profounder  grief.  A lamp  lent  its  feeble  rays  to  the  chamber,  which 
seemed  a sepulchre — so  lately  had  it  held  the  dead,  so  completely  did  it 
bury  the  hopes  of  its  principal  occupant.  The  drooping  figures  of  the 
father  and  child  looked  like  sculptured  mourners,  monumental  images 
of  grief,  so  mute,  so  motionless  were  they. 

Day  dawned,  and  found  them  still  thus.  But  as  the  sun  arose  in  his 
majesty,  and  poured  his  cheering  beams  into  that  desolate  chamber,  Ge- 
rard’s brain  seemed  suddenly  to  acquire  activity  and  perception  in  esti- 
mating the  circumstances  of  his  loss.  He  uttered  a sharp  groan  as  tho 


250 


HELENA  I 


painful  process  of  resuscitation  took  place  in  his  hitherto  spell-hound 
thought.  The  events  of  his  life  presented  themselves  in  strange  dis- 
tinctness before  his  mind.  He  beheld  as  in  a vision  the  whole  train  of 
incidents  which  had  marked  his  intercourse  with  his  wife  from  their 
first  meeting  to  their  recent  separation.  He  involuntarily  retraced 
scenes,  words,  looks,  long  passed  away,  but  which  had  unconsciously  en- 
graven themselves  upon  his  memory,  now  to  be  recalled  unbidden,  yet 
with  singular  vividness.  As  they  passed  in  review  before  him,  many  a 
pang  of  remorse  seized  him,  as  some  fancied  negligence,  or  some  occa- 
sion of  omitted  kindness  on  his  own  part,  smote  him.  With  the  sensi- 
tive self-accusation  which  always  accompanies  reflection  upon  our  con- 
duct in ’connection  with  a beloved  object  lost  to  us  for  ever,  a thousand 
of  such  instances  arose  in  all  the  torture  of  unavailing  regret  to  goad 
his  heart.  Above  all,  he  reproached  himself  bitterly  for  the  blindness 
with  which  he  had  suffered  the  tokens  of  her  declining  health  to  escape 
his  observation,  while  engrossed  with  the  sole  pursuit  of  what  should  se- 
cure her  repose,  enjoyment,  and  prolonged  life.  He  felt  that  in  ab- 
sorbed prosecution  of  a visionary  scheme,  he  had  lost  sight  of  actual 
happiness,  and  that  he  had  sacrificed  substance  to  shadow. 

From  the  depth  of  his  remorse  arose  two  clear  resolves,  as  expia- 
tory offerings  to  his  troubled  conscience.  He  determined  that  he 
would  rouse  himself  from  the  selfish  lethargy  of  grief,  and  by  devoting 
himself  with  more  fervour  of  zeal  than  ever  to  the  cause  of  the  poor, 
render  tardy  homage  to  the  angel  nature  which  might  be  supposed  to 
rejoice  in  such  a consecration  of  his  energies;  and  the,  other  resolve 
was,  that  the  wealth,  which  had  been  amassed  with  an  aim  so  frus- 
trated in  its  accomplishment,  should  be  scrupulously  dedicated  to  the 
use  of  the  same  suffering  class — the  neglected  of  menf  the  pitied  of 
God  and  his  angels. 

With  the  courage  which  a new-formed  resolution  imparts  to  the  soul 
of  man,  Gerard  arose  from  the  ground.  With  the  same  intense  thought 
of  herself , which  had  not  permitted  her  husband  to  regard  the  remains 
of  Gabrielle  as  the  being  he  had  loved,  he  glanced  not  towards  the  spot 
where  the  body  had  so  lately  lain,  but  looked  straight  up  into  the 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


251 


blue  heavens,  where  it  seemed  to  him  she  now  was.  But  with  the 
engrossing  impression  that  he  was  now  alone,  and  completely  alone 
in  existence,  neither  did  he  once  glance  towards  his  child,  or  perceive 
that  she  was  there,  or  for  an  instant  recollect  that  there  was  such  a 
being  in  the  world.  Gerard  was  constitutionally  a man  of  strong  feel- 
ing, and  by  habit  a man  of  concentrated  feeling.  He  was  at  present 
wholly  absorbed  in  his  solitude,  his  bereavement,  and  in  the  train  of 
thought,  emotion,  and  resolve  it  had  engendered  ; with  the  abstraction 
of  one  thus  immersed,  therefore,  he  went  forth  from  the  chamber,  bent 
solely  upon  his  new-conceived  purpose,  and  totally  unmindful  of  another 
duty  which  still  more  imperatively  claimed  fulfilment  at  his  hands. 

The  little  girl  awoke  as  her  father  quitted  the  room.  She  shivered 
with  the  chill  of  the  morning  air,  with  the  cramped  unrestful  position 
in  which  she  had  sat  for  some  hours,  and  with  a sense  of  utter  abandon- 
ment and  desolation.  She  staggered  to  her  feet,  and  called  feebly  after 
him,  but  no  voice  answered.  She  listened  to  his  retreating  steps,  but 
no  sound  reached  her.  She  thought  of  attempting  to  follow  him,  but 
she  knew  not  where  he  was  gone.  She  wrung  her  hands,  and  looking 
helplessly  round,  she  saw  the  bed  upon  which  her  mother  had  so  lately 
lain  cold  and  dead,  and  then  she  flung  herself  down  headlong  upon  it, 
sobbing,  “ 0,  Mother  ! Mother  ! Mother  !” 

Yery  desolate  and  forlorn  was  the  condition  of  this  poor  young  girl. 
Accustomed  to  the  warmest  evidences  of  affection  from  earliest  infancy, 
her  childhood  had,  till  now,  been  an  uninterrupted  course  of  happy  ex- 
istence. She  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  lack  sympathy,  or  encour- 
agement, or  endearment  from  her  mother,  who  was  as  tender  as  she  was 
cheerful. 

Gabrielle  was  one  of  those  beautifully-constituted  beings,  whose 
sprightliness  detract  no  jot  from  their  sweetness.  She  was  as  gentle  as 
she  was  gay ; she  was  as  loving  as  she  was  light-hearted.  She  had  been 
a fond,  an  indulgent  friend  to  her  little  Helena,  as  she  had  been  her 
play-mate  and  companion.  The  young  mother  and  daughter  had 
frolicked  together  as  if  they  had  been  of  the  same  age  ; and  the  child, 
though  an  only  one,  had  thus  never  known  want  of  fellowship.  Now, 


252 


HELENA  ! 


she  was  as  imicli  alone  as  her  unhappy  father ; for  he  saw  not  how  a 
consideration  of  her  feelings,  an  inquiry  into  her  sorrow,  might  serve  to 
alleviate  his  own,  and  promote  the  consolation  of  both  her  and  himself. 

Gerard  devoted  himself  with  all  the  energy  of  his  nature  to  his  self- 
appointed  task,  in  which  alone  he  believed  he  could  find  solace.  The 
greater  part  of  every  day  he  was  absent  from  home,  indefatigable  in  ad- 
ministering the  resources  of  his  art ; the  few  hours  he  was  in  his  own 
house  being  passed  in  study,  shut  up  by  himself  in  a small  room  which 
contained  his  books.  His  mode  of  life  was  ascetic.  He  slept  upon  the 
floor,  and  made  his  sparing  meal  upon  scarcely  more  than  a crust.  The 
only  indulgence  he  permitted  himself  was  coffee,  which  was  brought  to 
him  daily,  towards  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  by  Helena.  There  was  a 
homely  peasant  woman  who  had  been  their  servant  ever  since  Gerard 
and  his  wife  had  settled  there  ; and  she  still  remained,  preparing  such 
meals  as  he  would  take,  and  contriving  that  his  child  should  carry  in  the 
only  thing  for  which  he  showed  any  preference.  He  continued  to  drink 
coffee,  as  it  enabled  him  to  work  late  into  the  night ; and  Nicole  had 
taken  it  into  her  worthy  head,  that  by  sending  his  little  daughter  into 
his  room  with  the  coffee,  he  might  be  won  to  notice  her. 

But  day  after  day  she  stood  there,  with  her  patient  eyes,  and  in 
timid  silence,  unobserved  by  her  father,  who  would  remain  absorbed  in 
his  work,  until  some  stray  waft  of  the  steaming  berry-scented  beverage, 
or  some  pause  in  his  writing,  or  some  slight  noise  of  the  spoon  against 
the  cup  ^nd  saucer  she  held,  would  induce  him  to  stretch  forth  hrs 
hand,  ana  take  the  coffee  from  her,  but  without  so  much  as  lifting  his 
eyes  from  the  book  or  paper  before  him.  Helena  had  always  been 
taught,  by  her  mother’s  example  no  less  than  by  her  precept,  never  to 
disturb  her  father  when  he  was  studying.  She  had,  therefore,  frequently 
before  waited  upon  him  thus  in  silence,  standing  by  him  until  he  should 
become  aware  of  her  presence,  and  take  from  her  that  which  she  had 
brought ; but  never  before  had  she  felt  so  painfully  his  abstraction.  He 
would  formerly  say  no  more  than  he  did  now,  it  is  true  ; but  he  would 
give  her  a little  silent  nod,  or  a pat  on  the  shoulder,  or  a touch  under 
the  chin,  even  if  he  did  not  smile,  or  look  towards  her.  Now,  however. 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


253 


neither  nod,  nor  touch,  nor  smile,  nor  look  ever  reached  her  ; no  signal 
that  she  was  even  known  to  be  there  was  given  ; no  token  that  her  pres- 
ence was  perceived,  save  the  final  stretching  forth  of  the  hand  to  take 
the  cup  from  hers. 

She  would  stand  there  watching  that  grave  profile,  almost  stern  in 
its  absorbed  downward  gaze,  and  ache  with  longing  to  see  it  change  its 
expression,  and  turn  towards  her.  She  would  stand  holding  the  coffee, 
fearing  lest  it  should  get  cold,  before  he  thought  of  taking  it ; she 
would  watch  the  curling  steam,  and  note  each  diminishing  upward  curl 
of  vapour,  as  the  liquid  gradually  lost  its  heat.  She  would  stand  there 
with  all  sorts  of  strange  fears  and  fancies  crossing  her  mind.  She 
would  wonder  whether  her  father  ever  meant  to  look  at  her  or  speak  to 
her  again.  She  would  at  one  time  follow  his  hand  with  her  eyes  along 
the  paper,  and  thrill  with  impatience  to  see  it  stretched  out  towards  the 
coffee  that  she  might  be  released  ; at  another,  she  would  think  so  closely 
and  so  anxiously  about  the  time  when  the  hand  should  approach  her  to 
take  the  cup,  that  her  heart  beat  with  expectation,  and  she  would  start 
violently  when  the  instant  arrived.  Sometimes  she  thought  of  setting 
down  the  coffee  on  the  table,  and  leaving  it  there  ; but  besides  the  fear 
that  it  might  remain  there  untouched,  and  that  he  should  thus  miss  the 
only  thing  he  cared  to  take,  there  was  another  undefined  dread  mingling 
with  as  vague  a hope,  which  whispered  her  not  to  put  the  cup  down,  but 
to  tarry  till  his  hand  received  it.  At  others,  she  thought  she  would 
summon  courage  to  speak  to  him  ; and  when  she  was  away  she  thought 
she  would  surely  do  so  the  next  time  she  went  to  him  ; but  the  next 
time  came,  and  she  stood  there  as  patiently,  as  silently,  as  ever ; until  at 
length  it  grew  worse  by  delay,  and  it  became  impossible  even  to  think 
of  addressing  him.  At  last  so  many  nervous  terrors  beset  her  as  she 
stood  there  motionless  beside  him,  that  the  hour  for  taking  in  her  father’s 
coffee  came  to  be  looked  forward  to  with  almost  as  much  dread,  as  it 
had  formerly  been  wished  for. 

But  though  Helena  would  tremble  and  become  very  pale,  when  she 
went  to  Nicole  to  fetch  the  cup,  still  she  never  ceased  punctually  and 
constantly  to  go  to  the  kitchen  when  she  knew  the  coffee  was  ready, 


254 


HELENA ; 


take  it  steadily  in  her  hand,  and  proceed  straight  to  her  father’s  room. 
The  good-hearted  servant-wench,  when  she  observed  the  little  girl’s  agi- 
tation, asked  her  if  she  should  take  it  in  for  her.  But  she  said  : — ■“  No, 
no  ; give  it  me,  Nicole  ; I’ll  take  it  myself and  though  her  tremor 
every  day  increased  rather  than  diminished,  nothing  could  persuade  her 
to  relinquish  the  task  she  had  undertaken. 

“ I’ll  tell  you  what,  ma’amselle,”  said  Nicole  one  day  abruptly  to  Helena, 
as  she  was  preparing  to  take  in  the  coffee,  “ if  you  don’t  speak  to  mon- 
sieur, I shall.  I can’t  see  you  going  on  in  that  way,  shaking,  and  look- 
ing as  white  as  a sheet!  We  shall  have  you  getting  ill,  or  dropping  the 
coffee-cup,  and  smashing  it  all  to  bits,  or  some  mischief  or  another.  So 
mind,  if  you  don’t  speak  to  him,  I shall ; and  tell  him  a piece  of  my 
mind  too  !” 

u No,  no,  Nicole  ; you  mustn’t  disturb  him — you  mustn’t  speak  to 
him — promise  me,  Nicole  said  Helena  eagerly. 

“ Well  then  you  just  do — or  I shall ; mind  that !”  said  Nicole  ; and 
as  Helena  said  something  promissory,  going  in  with  the  coffee,  the  kind- 
meaning servant-wench  added,  as  she  followed  her  with  her  eyes  : — u I 
can’t  see  what’s  the  good  of  learning,  for  my  part,  if  it  an’t  to  teach 
people  the  use  of  their  senses.  Here’s  a man  poking  over  his  books, 
and  can’t  see  what’s  just  under  his  nose  ; a pretty  doctor  ! ferreting  out 
how  to  cure  everybody’s  disorders,  and  never  finds  that  his  wife  was 
dying,  and  his  child’s  dwindling  away,  for  want  of  a kind  word,  and  a 
look,  and  a helping  hand,  in  time.  I should  like  to  know  how  my  pot- 
au-feu  would  get  on,  if  I was  to  be  readin’  and  studyin’  about  it,  in- 
stead of  putting  the  beef  in,  and  paring  and  cutting  the  carrots  and  tur- 
nips. Precious  soup  we  should  get,  if  we  were  to  depend  on  learning, 
for  it ; pardi !” 

Meanwhile,  Helena  had  gone  in  to  her  father’s  little  study,  and  was 
standing  there  as  usual  at  his  elbow  with  the  cup  of  coffee.  She  tried 
not  to  listen  to  the  beating  of  her  heart,  and  to  muster  enough  voice  to 
speak ; but  still  she  stood  there  mute  and  motionless.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  her  father’s  high  temple,  which  was  barer  than  usual,  from 
the  hair  having  been  somewhat  pushed  back  when  he  leaned  his  head 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


255 


upon  his  hand  just  before.  A line  or  two  of  silver  threaded  among 
the  dark  clusters  of  hair  that  were  raised  from  the  brow ; and  as  the 
eyes  of  his  young  daughter  traced  the  course  of  those  heralds  of 
thought,  and  care,  and  premature  age,  she  unconsciously  uttered  a 
deep  sigh. 

It  was  at  this  very  moment,  that  her  father  reached  out  his  hand  for 
his  coffee.  The  sound  caught  his-  ear  ; he  started,  and  raised  his  eyes 
to  her  face. 

It  was  colourless ; and  two  dark  rings  surrounded  those  meek  patient 
eyes  that  were  fixed  upon  his  with  a look  which  childhood  should  never 
wear  ; the  lips  were  wan,  and  quivered  a little,  as  they  stood  apart  in 
timid  yet  eager  expectation. 

“ Helena  ! my  child  !”  exclaimed  Gerard,  with  a look  as  if  he  had 
awakened  from  a dream.  “ Where  have  you  been  ?” 

66  Here,  papa  !”  said  she. 

Her  father  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  ; and  seemed  as  if  for 
a moment  he  fancied  she  had  been  standing  there  ever  since  he  had  last 
beheld  her,  with  that  enduring  perseverance,  that  dumb  unreproachful 
constancy,  which  spoke  its  involuntary  appeal  to  his  heart  in  those  be- 
seeching eyes,  those  pale  cheeks,  and  tremulous  lips. 

He  drew  her  towards  him,  and  pressed  her  head  against  his  bosom. 
u My  child  ! My  dear  Helena  !”  were  all  the  words  he  could  find  to 
express  what  he  felt  towards  his  forgotten  daughter  ; his  self-reproach, 
his  reawakened  interest,  his  comprehension  of  her  patience,  his  admira- 
tion, his  love.  But  what  need  was  there  of  words,  where  so  much  of 
tenderness  was  expressed  in  his  looks,  in  his  voice,  in  his  gesture  ? 
Helena,  as  she  lay  within  his  arms,  wept  gentle  tears  of  comfort,  and 
joy,  and  satisfied,  affection. 

Gerard  now  understood  something  of  what  had  been  his  little  girl’s 
sufferings,  whilst  he  had  been  absorbed  in  his  own  ; he  saw  that  her 
solitary  grief  had  preyed  on  her  health  ; and  in  alarm  lest  another  vic- 
tim should  be  the  consequence  of  his  neglect,  he  hastened  to  devise 
means  for  removing  his  child  from  a position  which  he  perceived  was 
utterly  unfit,  and  which  might  be  productive  of  fatal  consequences.  He 


256 


HELENA  J 


wrote  to  his  friend  and  patroness  the  countess  of  Rousillon,  enlisting 
her  sympathy  in  behalf  of  his  motherless  girl,  and  entreating  her  coun- 
sel and  aid.  He  begged  that  she  would  extend  her  former  kind  inten- 
tion towards  himself  to  Helena,  by  receiving  her  for  a time,  at  the  cha- 
teau de  Rousillon,  that  change  of  scene  might  efface  the  sad  impression 
which  had  been  made  on  her  young  mind,  and  rescue  her  from  a situa- 
tion so  perilous  to  her  health  and  happiness  as  association  with  a broken- 
hearted man,  lost  in  his  own  eternal  regrets.  “ I have  now  but  one 
solitary  aim  on  earth  thus  the  letter  concluded.  u It  is  that  I may 
render  myself  worthy  of  joining  her  who  is  now  in  Heaven,  by  self- 
denial,  humility,  and  faithful  labour ; and  by  a life  dedicated  tc  the 
relief  of  my  poor  fellow-sufferers  on  earth.  A man  thus  devoted  to  a 
sacred  task,  is  not  a meet  guide  for  youth.  The  two  duties  cannot 
co-exist,  The  requirements  of  the  one  infringe  on  the  exigencies  of  the 
other.  Let  your  charitable  heart,  therefore,  dear  lady,  prompt  you  in 
behalf  of  my  innocent  child  ; lost,  if  you  do  not  step  to  her  aid.  My 
only  plea  in  asking  this  boon  at  your  hands,  is  her  own  desert,  which 
will,  I know,  requite  your  goodness  as  it  should  be  requited.  The  grate- 
ful devotion  and  affection  of  a young  true  heart  will  be  yours.  To  these 
are  added  the  prayers  and  blessings  of 

Your  ladyship’s  unhappy  servant  and  friend, 

Gautier  Gerard.” 

The  countess’s  reply  was  a warm  compliance,  brought  to  Narbonne 
by  Rinaldo,  her  steward,  who  was  charged  to  escort  Helena  back  to  the 
cheateau  de  Rousillon.  On  the  arrival  of  her  young  guest,  the  coun- 
tess could  not  avoid  being  struck  with  the  change  that  had  taken  place. 
The  lively,  chubby,  rosy  child  of  but  a few  years  old,  had  grown  into 
the  pale  quiet  girl — fast-growing,  hollow-eyed,  and  lank.  Traces  of  pre- 
mature care  and  suffering  sat  upon  the  young  face,  and  the  effect  of  her 
white  cheeks,  and  thin  arms,  was  touchingly  heightened  by  the  contrast 
with  the  mourning  frock  she  wore. 

The  lady  of  Rousillon  received  the  poor  motherless  girl  with  a gen- 
tleness and  pity  that  went  straight  to  Helena’s  heart,  so  sore  with  its 
late  unhappiness  ; and  the  young  girl  was  still  hovering  near  her  kind 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


257 


new  friend,  when  Bertram  entered  the  room.  He  had  been  out  in  the 
park,  with  his  dogs,  one  or  two  of  which  followed  him  into  the  saloon 
where  his  mother  sat. 

He  was  now  a fine  tall  lad ; and  swung  into  the  room  glowing  with 
exercise,  in  high  spirits  and  good  humour,  flinging  his  hat  off,  and  dis- 
covering a face  sparkling  with  animation,  features  regular  and  command- 
ing, and  hair  bright,  thick,  and  curling. 

As  his  mother’s  eye  rested  upon  her  handsome  son, — a picture  of 
healthful  beauty,  her  heart  swelled  with  happy  pride  ; she  thought  of 
the  contrast  he  presented  with  the  poor  little  pale  thin  creature  at  her 
side,  and  she  drew  her  kindly  towards  her. 

c-  Come  here,  Bertram  said  his  mother.  u See  who  is  here.  Do 
you  not  remember  your  acquaintance  of  the  Narbonne  gardens,  little 
Helena  V1 

u Is  that  little  Helena  !”  said  Bertram.  a I never  should  have  known 
her  !” 

u Did  you  remember  me  ? Did  you  think  about  whether  you  should 
have  known  me  ?”  said  Helena. 

“ I was  absurd  enough  to  think  of  you  just  the  same  as  you  were 
answered  he.  “I  somehow  fancied,  when  I heard  you  were  coming  to 
Rousillon,  that  I should  see  just  the  same  rosy  dumpling  of  a child  that 
you  were  then,  forgetting  that  we  had  both  grown  bigger  since,  and  that 
of  course  you  would  be  altered,  as  I am.” 

u I don’t  think  you’re  altered ; I should  have  known  you  any  where 
said  she.  “ I remember  your  hair  exactly ; and  the  high  eyebrows — and 
the  color  of  your  eyes,  just  as  I recollect  them,  when  you  used  to  be 
watching  the  shuttlecock  fly  into  the  air.” 

Helena,  in  looking  at  Bertram,  and  tracing  her  recollection  of  his 
features,  was  hardly  aware  of  what  made  her  wince,  and  shrink,  as  the 
two  large  dogs  which  had  accompanied  him  into  the  room,  were  now 
sniffing  and  snuffing  and  trying  to  make  acquaintance  with  the  strange 
little  girl,  by  poking  their  eold  noses  against  her  bare  arms,  and  push- 
ing their  rough  snouts  up  to  her  chin,  and  other  slight  amenities,  some- 
what startling  to  a child  of  her  age,  unaccustomed  to  the  proximity  of 
large  hounds  almost  as  big  as  herself. 


258 


HELENA  ; 


“ Bertram,  my  dear,”  said  his  mother,  “ hadn’t  you  better  send  these 
dogs  out  of  the  room,  or  call  them  off,  for  I think  they’re  annoying  our 
petite  amie  here.” 

“Here,  Nero;  come  here,  sir;  lie  down,  Juba;”  said  Bertram, 
slightly  whistling  to  his  favorites.  u Are  you  afraid  of  dogs?  An’t  you 
fond  of ’em?”  added  he  to  Helena. 

“ Are  you  ?”  said  she. 

“ Fond  of  them  ? 0 yes  ! I like  to  have  them  always  with  me. 

That’s  why  I like  to  be  out  in  the  park,  because  there  nobody  minds 
’em;  the  saloon  isn’t  thought  their  fit  place,  is  it,  mother?  I know 
you  only  allow  them  to  be  here,  because  you  love  to  please  me,  more 
than  you  care  about  the  dogs,  like  a good  kind  mother  as  you  are. 
Don’t  you  ?” 

His  mother  smiled  ; but  after  a little  lounging  about,  Bertram  swung 
out  of  the  room  'again,  whistling  his  dogs  after  him ; and  Helena  sat 
reproaching  herself  wfith  having  driven  him  away,  by  her  folly  in  being 
unable  to  help  starting  when  the  dogs  touched  her.  She  resolved  to 
break  herself  of  such  a stupid  trick,  and  to  try  and  make  friends  with  the 
noble  animals  on  the  first  opportunity. 

The  count  Rousillon  was  absent  from  the  chateau  at  this  period. 
He  was  at  Paris,  in  attendance  on  the  king,  who  esteemed  him  highly, 
and  was  fond  of  his  society.  A few  days  after  Helena’s  arrival,  a mes- 
senger came  to  Rousillon  from  the  count,  bearing  letters  and  greetings 
to  his  countess,  with  a present  to  his  son  of  a handsome  fishing-tackle, 
which  had  often  been  the  object  of  Bertram’s  wishes. 

There  was  a fine  piece  of  water  which  adjoined  the  chateau,  and 
which  in  one  part  of  its  stream  formed  the  moat  that  surrounded  the 
turreted  irregular  walls.  Bertram  had  frequently  expatiated  to  his 
father  on  the  capabilities  afforded  for  angling  in  this  spot , and  the  in- 
dulgent parent  now  remembering,  in  absence,  his  son’s  desire,  sent  him 
the  means  of  its  gratification. 

When  Helena  learned  what  the  packet  from  Paris  probably  con- 
tained, she  begged  of  the  countess  that  she  might  have  the  privilege  of 
carrying  it  at  once  to  Bertram,  who  was  out  in  the  park. 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


259 


{C  My  page  shall  take  it  to  him said  the  countess. 

u Do  let  me  take  it,  madam  urged  the  little  girl.  “ I know  it  will 
give  your  son  so  much  pleasure,  and  would  give  me  so  much,  if  I might 
be  the  bearer.” 

The  countess  nodded  and  smiled ; and  away  went  Helena. 

u See  what  I have  here  for  you  !”  she  cried  from  a distance,  as  she 
perceived  Bertram  among  the  trees.  u My  lord,  your  father,  has  sent 
Baptiste  from  Paris  with  this  box  for  you  ! And  we  think  it  must  con- 
tain the  fishing  rod  and  flies  you  wished  for  so  much;  and  my  lady 
allowed  me  to  bring  it  to  you,  that  you  might  open  it  at  once,  and  see 
what  it  is.” 

“ Set  it  down  on  the  grass,  and  undo  the  fastenings ;”  said  Bertram. 
u I hope  it  really  is  the  rod  ! Oh  yes  ! And  what  a capital  one  ! And 
what  a good  line  !” 

u And  look  at  these  curious  flies  !”  exclaimed  Helena. 

“ I’ll  put  one  on  the  line  directly,”  said  Bertram.  “ I must  have  a 
throw.  I know  there  must  be  millions  of  trout  here.  Hush,  don’t  make 
a noise  ; don’t  talk.  Hush,  Helena. 

A moment  after,  he  himself  loudly  exclaimed  at  his  dogs,  who  were 
snuffing  to  and  fro,  taking  a busy  interest  in  all  that  was  going  on,  and 
at  length  uttered  the  sharp  bark  of  excitement  and  sympathy  with  their 
master’s  new  pursuit,  which  had  provoked  his  ire  at  the  interruption  to 
his  sport. 

“ Confound  those  dogs  !”  he  exclaimed  ; “ I wish  they  were  hanged 
or  drowned  out  of  the  way.  It’s  impossible  to  fish,  while  they’re  yelp- 
ing about  one.” 

“ Mightn’t  they  be  put  out  of  the  way,  without  hanging  or  drown- 
ing ?”  asked  Helena,  with  a smile  ; “ you  may  want  them  to-morrow,  you 
know,  when  you’re  tired  of  angling ; and  then  you  would  rather  find 
them  safe  in  their  kennel,  wouldn’t  you  ?” 

u How  you  talk,  Helena said  he.  u If  they’re  to  be  taken  to  their 
kennel  now,  I must  go  with  ’em,  and  leave  my  fishing ; for  they  won’t 
mind  any  body  but  me ; and  they  won’t  leave  me  for  any  body  else’s 
bidding.” 


260 


HELENA ; 


u Won’t  they?”  said  she  ; u let’s  try.” 

The  young  girl  uttered  a little  melodious  whistle  which  she  had 
practised  in  imitation  of  the  one  she  heard  Bertram  use  with  such 
good  effect  in  calling  his  dogs.  Then  she  went  a short  distance,  slap- 
ping her  frock  as  she  had  seen  him  do  upon  his  knee,  and  mimicking  as 
well  as  she  could  the  imperative  u Here,  Juba,  here  ! Hie  along,  Nero  !” 
with  which  Bertram  was  accustomed  to  enforce  their  obedience.  Find- 
ing that  they  still  lingered  round  their  master,  she  drew  from  her 
pocket  a piece  of  rye-cake  which  she  had  found  effectual  during  her  late 
assiduous  training  of  the  dogs  and  herself  to  a mutual  good  understand- 
ing. In  the  present  instance,  the  lure  proved  successful ; for  wagging 
their  tails,  and  following  Helena  with  wistful  eyes,  they  drew  off  the 
field,  leaving  Bertram  in  peaceful  possession  of  the  banks  of  the  stream. 

Here  she  found  him,  on  her  return,  engrossed  in  the  pursuit  of  his 
new  pleasure.  And  during  the  whole  afternoon,  and  for  many  follow- 
ing days,  he  still  eagerly  enjoyed  the  sport ; Helena  lingering  by  his 
side,  helping  him  to  fix  his  flies,  to  watch  the  bites,  to  land  the  fish,  to 
carry  home  the  basket,  and  in  a thousand  ways  rendering  herself  an  ac- 
ceptable companion. 

One  morning,  they  had  just  succeeded  in  hooking  and  landing  a fine 
trout,  that  had  enhanced  the  pleasure  of  his  capture  by  making  it  a 
matter  of  difficult  achievement ; now  starting  away  as  if  he  would  snap 
the  line,  now  darting  through  some  tangled  sedges  where  he  might  twist 
it,  now  floating  teasingly  near,  now  giving  them  a run  of  several  yards 
along  the  bank,  now  waving  slyly  down  by  the  weedy  bottom,  now 
glancing  recklessly  close  to  the  crystal  surface,  and  in  short  keeping  his 
foes  in  all  that  breathless  suspense,  and  dubiousness  of  ultimate  triumph, 
which  constitutes  the  charm  of  the  pursuit, — so  bewitching  to  an  angler, 
so  incomprehensible  to  other  people. 

Hdlena  had  secured  the  flapping  victim  in  the  basket,  and  was  anti- 
cipating the  pleasure  of  Bertram’s  displaying  this  prize  so  his  mother ; 
when,  having  adjusted  a fresh  bait,  and  thrown  his  line  again  across 
the  stream,  he  suddenly  uttered  an  exclamation,  which  caused  his  com- 
panion to  look  round.  She  found  that  the  end  of  the  rod,  with  its  ap- 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


261 


pended  line,  had  snapped  off,  and  was  now  floating  away  towards  a plot  of 
rushes  and  river-weeds  that  grew  in  the  water  near  to  the  opposite  bank, 
at  a considerable  distance  from  the  spot  where  they  stood. 

“ 0 it  will  be  lost !”  exclaimed  Helena.  u Your  rod  will  be  spoiled, 
and  useless,  without  the  top.  Let  us  try  and  get  it  back.  How  can  we 
manage  ? What  had  we  best  do  ?” 

“ It’s  gone — it’s  hopeless  !”  said  Bertram.  “ It  will  be  quite  floated 
away,  by  the  time  we  can  get  round  to  the  opposite  shore ; or  lost  among 
those  flags  and  weeds.  Provoking  !” 

“ We  can  but  try said  Helena.  “ I’ll  run  round  through  the  wood 
over  the  bridge,  while  you  remain  here  to  watch  it,  and  to  point  it  out 
to  me,  when  I get  to  the  opposite  side.” 

“ No,  no  ; it’s  almost  out  of  sight  now — it’s  of  no  use.  I must  give 
it  up.” 

“ We  can  but  give  it  up,  when  we  have  done  all  we  can  said  He- 
lena, and  she  was  just  running  off,  T^hen  Bertram  said  : — 

“ I tell  you,  it’s  of  no  use,  Helena ; I can’t  stay  here  watching  all 
day  for  a thing  that’s  already  out  of  sight.  I shouldn’t  so  much  mind 
the  loss,  for  I’ve  had  almost  enough  of  angling  ; but  I shall  be  sorry  to 
have  to  own  fhe  rod’s  spoilt,  when  my  father  comes  home.  Provoking  !” 
muttered  he  again,  as  he  looked  in  vain  towards  the  weeds  near  which 
the  broken  rod  and  line  were  fast  disappearing. 

“ The  count’s  kind  gift ! His  beautiful  present !”  said  Helena,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  in  the  same  direction. 

a Well,  it  can’t  be  helped,  at  any  rate  ;”  said  Bertram,  as  he  walked 
away,  adding  : — u I’ll  go  and  take  Nero  and  Juba  out  for  a good  long 
walk.  I haven’t  had  a ramble  with  them  this  many  a day  ; ever  since 
I’ve  been  looking  after  the  trout.” 

Helena  remained  for  a few  minutes  longer,  still  looking  intently 
across  the  stream,  which  spread  broad  and  far  just  there,  fortning  a 
small  lake  among  the  grounds  of  the  chateau ; then  she  suddenly  turned, 
and  walked  fast  along  the  bank,  beneath  the  trees,  till  she  came  to  some 
broken  ground,  which  adjoined  the  more  level  park,  and  where  the 
stream  dashed  and  foamed  among  the  underwood,  from  some  rocks  that 


262 


HELENA : 


rose  abruptly  there  about.  This  tumbling  torrent  was  crossed  by  a 
rustic  bridge  at  its  foot.  Over  the  bridge  Helena  passed  swiftly  ; and, 
tripping  along  the  briery  pathway  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stream, 
made  her  way  with  a rapid  step. 

On  reaching  the  bank,  near  to  which  the  plot  of  rushes  grew,  she 
peered  carefully  about,  in  the  hope  of  descrying  the  object  of  her  search, 
but  no  vestige  of  rod  or  line  was  there  to  be  seen.  “ If  I could  but  get 
•among  those  weeds — close  to  them,  I could  look  better;”  thought  she. 
“ If  I could  but  swim  !”  A moment  after,  she  exclaimed,  half  aloud : — 
•“  The  boat ! how  came  I not  to  think  of  it  V1 

She  retraced  her  way  as  speedily  as  she  had  come ; and  then  has- 
tened on  to  a spot  in  the  park,  where  she  knew  a small  pleasure-boat 
was  moored.  She  soon  succeeded  in  undoing  the  fastenings,  and  in  pad- 
dling herself  across  the  stream,  back  to  the  plot  of  rushes.  Here  she 
spent  some  time  in  searching  minutely  among  the  flags,  and  at  length 
she  became  unwillingly  convinced  that  the  missing  rod  was  not  there. 

She  was  reluctantly  turning  the  head  of  the  boat  to  recross  the 
stream,  when  its  current  drew  her  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  rod  had 
probably  floated  on  farther,  quite  away  from  this  spot.  “ The  stream 
flows  from  the  torrent  in  the  dell,  across  this  broad  piece  of  water,  to- 
wards the  moat thought  she.  “ I’ll  follow  the  course  of  the  stream  ; 
perhaps  I may  find  Bertram’s  rod  still.” 

She  pushed  the  boat  on  in  that  direction,  peeping  into  all  the  sedgy 
nooks,  and  grassy  crevices,  along  the  shore,  in  vain  ; until  she  entered 
the  moat  which  washed  the  walls  of  the  chateau,  entirely  surrounding 
them.  These  walls  were  built  irregularly  ; forming  all  sorts  of  odd 
angles,  and  crannies,  and  close  recesses.  In  one  of  these,  floated  by  the 
current,  and  washed  far  inwards,  lying  in  a tangled  heap,  Helena  spied 
the  lost  line,  with  the  fragment  of  rod.  She  steadied  the  boat  as  well 
as  she  could  across  the  narrow  inlet,  which  was  formed  by  two  meeting 
angles  of  the  edifice  ; for  the  space  thus  left  between  the  walls  that  rose 
sheer  from  the  water,  was  too  small  to  admit  the  head  of  the  vessel 
Helena  stretched  herself  as  far  over  the  side,  as  possible  ; but  she  could 
not  nearly  reach  the  floating  object,  even  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 


tfHE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


263 


How  tantalizing  it  was,  to  see  it  lie  there,  within  a few  feet  of  her,  but 
as  much  out  of  her  power,  as  when  out  of  sight  ! 

She  seized  the  oar,  with  which  she  had  paddled  herself  thither ; but 
she  not  only  nearly  lost  her  balance,  trying  to  wield  so  heavy  an  object, 
but  she  had  the  mortification  to  perceive  that  instead  of  gaining  any 
hold  of  the  line  with  the  unmanageable  end  of  the  oar,  she  only  suc- 
ceeded in  pushing  it  farther  than  ever  beyond  her  reach,  until  it  washed 
away  right  up  to  the  extreme  end  of  the  recess,  where  it  lay  bobbing 
and  floating  in  co}T  retirement, — obvious,  yet  unattainable. 

Helena  felt  so  frustrated  and  baffled  in  the  very  view  of  success,  that 
she  could  have  shed  tears  of  vexation ; but  recollecting  just  in  time  for 
the  honor  of  her  childish  wisdom,  that  such  a proceeding  would  advance 
her  no  jot, — at  the  very  same  fortunate  moment  popped  into  her  head 
another  idea  no  less  sagacious.  This  was,  that  she  would  try  and  make 
one  of  the  dogs  swim  across  the  moat  and  fetch  the  line  out  of  the  recess. 
Then  remembering  that  she  could  hardly  make  the  dog  comprehend 
what  he  was  to  seek,  she  determined  to  row  back  and  bring  the  dog  with 
her  in  the  boat  to  the  spot,  where  she  might  point  out  to  him  the  precise 
object  she  wanted  him  to  fetch. 

Her  experiment  was  crowned  with  complete  success.  She  returned, 
accompanied  by  Fanchon,  one  of  the  smaller  dogs,  Bertram  having  taken 
rith  him  his  two  favorites  ; and,  with  its  help,  she  succeeded  at  length 
in  securing  the  top  of  the  fishing-rod  and  line.  Her  first  impulse  was 
to  take  them  to  their  owner,  in  the  hope  of  pleasing  him  by  the  news  of 
their  recovery ; but  remembering  that  his  zest  for  angling  had  suffered 
an  abatement,  she  resolved  to  keep  them  quietly  for  the  present. 

Another  letter  arrives  from  the  count,  stating  that  he  is  still  detained 
from  rejoining  his  family,  by  the  wishes  of  the  king,  whose  gracious  de- 
sire for  his  longer  stay  is  not  to  be  withstood.  The  count  speaks  of  a 
valued  friend  of  his,  the  lord  Lafeu,  who  has  been  desired  by  his  royal 
master  to  prepare  for  a diplomatic  mission  to  some  neighbouring  state. 
This  friend  being  anxious,  during  his  absence,  to  obtain  honorable 
protection  for  his  daughter  Maudlin,  who  lost  her  mother  when  an 
infant,  the  count  has  invited  the  young  lady  to  pass  a few  weeks  at  the 
chateau  de  Rousillon,  on  a visit  to  his  countess. 


264 


HELENA  I 


Mademoiselle  Lafeu  arrives ; and  is  greeted  with  all  distinction  and 
affectionate  welcome.  She  proves  to  he  a lively  girl,  with  an  air  of  de- 
cision and  court-bred  ease  about  her  manners  that  bespeak  her  to  be  an 
inhabitant  of  the  capital. 

French  words  best  describe  the  distinguishing  characteristics  of  this 
young  French  girl.  She  was  insouciante,  in  her  gaiety  of  spirits ; 
nonchalante,  in  her  indifference  to  the  opinions  of  others  ; she  was  assez 
spirituelle  ; tant  soit  peu  espiegle ; and  had  much  aplomb  in  her  tastes, 
her  judgment,  her  convictions,  or  rather  in  her  mode  of  answering  them 
all  three,  whenever,  however,  and  with  whomsoever  she  might  choose  to 
assert  them. 

She  formed  a striking  contrast  with  the  provincial-bred  Helena,  who 
was  quiet,  retiring,  and  undemonstrative  in  speech.  The  one  was  accus- 
tomed to  utter  every  thought  aloud  the  instant  it  was  formed  ; nay, 
sometimes,  before  she  had  thought  at  all  upon  a subject,  she  would  ex- 
press very  decided  sentiments  regarding  it : while  the  other  would  speak 
no  word  upon  matters  which  had  not  only  engaged  her  serious  consider- 
ation, but  upon  which  she  was  prepared  to  act  with  energy,  firmness,  and 
pertinacious  constancy. 

Maudlin  Lafeu  would  eagerly  discuss  veriest  trifles  as  if  her  whole 
soul  were  wrapt  up  in  them,  and  the  next  hour,  prove  by  her  actions, 
that  she  cared  no  iota  for  any  one  of  the  things  for  which  she  had  been  so 
earnestly  arguing ; Helena  was  chary  of  alluding  to  her  own  views,  even 
upon  topics  on  which  her  mind  was  made  up  with  a consistency  and 
steadiness  hardly  to  be  expected  from  a girl  of  her  age.  Maudlin  was 
sparkling,  animated,  and  full  of  vivacity;  Helena  was  tranquil,  and 
somewhat  reserved,  though  not  shy,  or  awkwardly  bashful.  She  had 
timidity,  though  no  want  of  resolution.  A diffidence  of  self,  combined 
with  remarkable  self-confidence.  A mistrust  of  her  own  merit,  with  a 
consciousness  of  moral  power.  An  unassured  belief  of  intrinsic  worth, 
with  a strong  faith  in  her  own  principle  of  right.  A humility  that 
taught  her  to  assign  blame  to  herself  rather  than  to  others,  combined 
with  a high  internal  sense  of  her  true  claim  to  regard. 

In  externals  there  was  the  same  dissimilarity  between  the  two  young 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


265 


girls.  Maudlin  was  brilliant  in  complexion,  had  eyes  bright  and  rest- 
less, with  lips  wreathed  in  smiles  ; while  Helena  was  pale,  her  eyes  were 
soft  and  thoughtful,  with  a look  of  steadfastness  in  resolve,  and  her 
mouth  was  sedate,  though  the  lips  were  full,  and  so  coral  and  red,  that 
they  afforded  the  point  of  colour,  in  which  her  face  would  otherwise 
have  been  deficient. 

To  complete  the  contrast,  Maudlin  was  dressed  in  the  height  of  the 
then  Parisian  fashion,  a rich  father’s  liberality  enabling  her  to  indulge 
in  every  extravagance  of  adornment ; while  Helena,  a poor  country  phy- 
sician’s daughter,  wore  a simple  black  frock  of  the  plainest  make,  and  of 
the  least  costly  material. 

On  the  morning  after  Mademoiselle  Lafeu’s  arrival  at  Rousillon,  the 
countess,  having  done  the  honours  of  the  house,  by  showing  her  young 
guest  over  the  chateau,  deputed  her  son  to  escort  her  through  the  park 
and  the  rest  of  the  domain,  which  was  extensive,  and  very  beautiful. 

With  more  eagerness  of  manner  than  he  usually  displayed,  when  the 
gratification  of  any  other  than  himself  was  in  question,  Bertram  complied. 
He  led  the  way,  talking  animatedly  with  the  young  lady,  who,  interrupt- 
ing him  in  the  midst  of  something  he  was  saying,  turned  to  Helena, 
with  : — ■“  Will  not  you  come  with  us  ?” 

“ Go,  ma  petite said  the  countess,  in  answer  to  the  mute  enquiry  of 
Helena’s  eyes. 

They  had  crossed  the  drawbridge  over  the  moat,  and  were  just  enter- 
ing the  park,  Bertram  dwelling  with  much  complacency  upon  the  noble 
growth  of  the  trees,  upon  the  valuable  timber  they  would  yield,  upon  the 
beautiful  site  of  the  chateau,  its  picturesque  structure,  its  best  points  of 
view,  and  upon  the  territorial  grandeur  of  the  estate  generally,  when  he 
turned  slightly  to  Helena,  and  said : — “ I should  like  the  dogs  to  be 
with  us.” 

Helena  replying,  u Ay,  they  would  enjoy  this  ramble,”  tripped  back 
to  fetch  them. 

“ Where  is  she  gone  to  ?”  asked  Mademoiselle  Lafeu. 

“ Gone  to  fetch  Nero  and  Juba,  my  dogs,  they  are  such  fine  fellows ; 
I should  like  you  to  see  them  answered  he. 


266 


HELENA  ; 


u Should  you  ? But  I am  sorry  Mademoiselle  Helena  should  have 
the  trouble  of  returning  for  them,”  said  Maudlin. 

“ 0,  she  don’t  mind  it ; and  the  dogs  are  very  fond  of  her  replied 
Bertram. 

Mademoiselle  Lafeu  seemed  about  to  say  something  more,  but  was 
prevented  by  Helena’s  running  up,  with  the  dogs  leaping  and  bounding 
each  side  of  her. 

They  walked  on  again ; Bertram  by  the  side  of  Maudlin  Lafeu, 
talking  and  laughing  in  high  spirits,  and  using  his  best  efforts  to  enter- 
tain her.  Helena  followed  a little  in  the  rear,  with  the  dogs  stf!1  frolick- 
ing, and  gamboling,  and  jumping  about  her ; while  the  young  lady  fre- 
quently turned  to  address  some  remark  to  her,  as  if  wishing  her  to  take 
part  in  the  conversation  that  was  going  forward. 

Presently,  as  they  emerged  from  the  shade  of  the  trees,  Helena  per- 
ceived that  the  glare  of  the  sun  seemed  oppressive  to  Mademoiselle 
Lafeu,  who  had  only  the  small  flat  hat  or  cap  worn  by  French  ladies  of 
the  period,  and  which  afforded  little  protection  to  the  eyes  or  the  com- 
plexion. 

“ You  feel  the -rays  too  hot  and  too  bright  for  you,  Mademoiselle 
said  Helena.  “ Will  you  use  my  broad  straw  hat,  which  makes  a good 
screen  for  the  eyes  ?” 

“ Bo  said  Bertram. 

But  Maudlin  declared  she  would  not  deprive  Helena  of  it,  who 
would  then  be  as  badly  off  as  herself. 

u But  you  must  not  risk  such  tanning  as  this said  Bertram. 
“ Helena  will  go  and  fetch  you  a veil,  or  a fan,  from  the  chateau.” 

“ Yes,  that  will  be  the  best said  Helena,  as  she  darted  off  in  quest 
of  them ; while  Bertram  added  some  gallant  speeches  about  the  bril- 
liancy of  the  complexion  that  Mademoiselle  Lafeu  was  so  ruthlessly 
exposing  to  injury,  which  she  interrupted  by  saying  : — 

lt  Is  this  your  country  good-breeding,  Monsieur  Bertram  ? You  pay 
a few  fiddle-faddle  compliments  to  one  young  lady,  while  you  permit 
another  to  run  about  on  your  errands — or  what  ought  to  be  yours, — for 
why  could  mot  you  go  yourself  for  the  fan  or  veil  which  you  think  I ought 
to  have?” 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


267 


* 

•“  0,  Helena  don’t  mind  it;”  repeated  Bertram,  laughing. 

“ Perhaps  not ; hut  you  ought.  If  you  pretend  to  be  a gentleman, 
I suppose  you  do,  how  comes  it  that  you  let  a young  lady  wait  upon 
you?” 

“ She’s  not  a young  lady;”  said  Bertram  hastily.  “She’s  only  a 
poor  girl,  a protegee  of  my  mother’s.  A country  doctor’s  daughter  that 
my  good  mother  took  a fancy  to,  because  the  father  happened  to  cure 
mine,  a long  time  ago, — for  which  service  he  was  well  paid,  by  the  bye, — 
and  because  the  girl  herself  has  lately  lost  her  mother.” 

“ Tolerably  good  claims,  too,  to  consideration  ;”  said  Mademoiselle 
Lafeu.  u But  whatever  may  be  her  birth,  she  deserves  politeness  from 
a young  gentleman,  one  would  think,  from  the  mere  fact  of  her  being  a 
pretty  girl.” 

“ Pretty  !”  said  Bertram  ; — “ what,  with  that  pale  face  ? She  was 
pretty  as  a little  child ; but  she’s  quite  altered — an  absolute  fright  now, 
with  her  white  cheeks,  and  those  dark  rings  round  her  eyes.” 

“ Poor  girl ! Perhaps  she  lost  her  good  looks  with  grieving  for  her 
dead  mother.  For  good  looks  she  has,  depend  upon  it ; I can  perceive 
them  through  all  that  sorrowful  one  ; and  some  day  or  other,  you’ll  see, 
she’ll  prove  my  words,  and  come  out  a beauty.” 

66  Not  my  sort  of  beauty;”  said  Bertram,  fixing  his  eyes  with  an  ad- 
miring look  upon  Maudlin’s  brilliant  countenance,  but  with  a boy’s 
bashfulness  soon  withdrawing  his  gaze,  and  stammering  out : — “ I don’t 
see  any  beauty  in  linen  cheeks  for  my  part ; give  me  lovely  red  and 
white,  and  a pair  of  bright  happy  eyes.  Such  as,  I trust,  some  day  or 
other,  to  see  in  perfection  among  you  Parisian  Belles.” 

“ The  sieur  Bertram  tells  me  he  is  dying  to  see  Paris  ;”  said  Maudlin 
to  Helena,  who  now  returned  with  the  veil  and  fan.  “ Why  does  he 
not  persuade  his  father  to  bring  him  the  next  time  he  comes  thither  ? 
You  must  help  him  to  gain  the  permission,  I believe,  by  pleading  his 
cause  with  his  mother,  who  will  plead  it  again  with  his  father,  and  then 
the  affair  will  be  settled.” 

“ It’s  of  no  use  any  one  pleading ;”  said  Bertram  testily.  “ My 
mother  would  long  ago  have  given  me  my  wish,  but  my  father  is  obsti- 


268 


HELENA  J 


nately  bent  upon  my  not  visiting  the  capital  yet.  He  has  violent 
prejudices  against  Paris  as  an  abiding  place  for  youth.  Thinks  ill  of 
the  young  men  there  as  examples,  and  I know  not  what  of  scruples  and 
strictnesses,  which  surely  are  old-fashioned,  over-rigid,  and  misplaced, 
now-a-days.” 

u This  is  so  beautiful  a place,  I can  hardly  fancy  sighing  to  leave  it, 
even  for  dear  delightful  Paris  !”  said  Mademoiselle  Lafeu.  “ And  you 
must  have  plenty  of  amusement  here,  too,  to  compensate  for  the  court 
gaieties,  and  the  society  of  the  capital.  What  a fine  place  for  a gallop 
on  horse-back,  a row  on  the  lake,  a falcon  match,  a trial  with  the  bow 
and  arrows,  or  for  hunting  or  fishing,  or  the  thousand  enjoyments  which 
you  country  gentlemen  can  command.  There  must  be  capital  fishing 
in  that  piece  of  water.  Do  you  know,  I’m  a bit  of  an  angler  myself? 
When  I have  been  en  campagne  with  my  father,  at  our  house  at  Marly, 
he  has  taught  me  to  bait  a hook  and  throw  a line,  so  that  I should  scarcely 
be  afraid  to  challenge  such  proficients  as  you  and  Mademoiselle  Helena 
doubtless  are.” 

“ You  like  angling?”  said  Bertram.  u.  How  vexatious  that  I should 
have  no  rod  to  offer  you.  Mine  is  broken — but — how  I wish  I had  it 
now !”  4 

u I have  it  safely  for  you,  I’ll  fetch  it * said  Helena  eagerly.  u I 
got  it  back — it’s  mended  ; I’ll  bring  it  to  you  directly.” 

u Do,  do,  Helena  ! But  how  on  earth  do  you  mean  ? How  did  you 
get  it  back  ?”  said  he. 

In  a few  words,  she  explained  her  recovery  of  the  detached  portion 
of  his  rod  and  line,  and  then  hurried  away  to  fetch  them. 

Highly  pleased,  he  began  to  question  Mademoiselle  Lafeu  on  her 
knowledge  of  the  sport,  and  to  express  his  delight  at  the  prospect  of  en- 
joying it  with  her.  She  answered  by  dwelling  upon  Helena’s  having 
taken  such  pains  to  gratify  him,  and  by  reproaching  him  for  the  slender 
gratitude  he  had  shown  for  her  friendly  zeal. 

u If  you  go  on  praising  it  so,  you’ll  make  me  detest  it,  instead  of 
teaching  me  to  feel  grateful  for  it said  he.  “ I hate  things  or  people 
that  are  belauded  and  cried  up  by  every  one.  My  mother  tells  me  sc 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


269 


much  of  Helena’s  good  behaviour  that  I’m  rather  sick  of  it ; and  now 
you  are  doing  the  same,  and  giving  me  a downright  surfeit  of  her  merits. 
She’s  well  enough,  but  she’s  no  such  paragon  as  you’d  all  make  her  out 
to  be.” 

u You  are  a spoilt  young  man,  and  have  your  own  way  too  much, 
and  are  too  little  contradicted,  I see  said  Mademoiselle  Lafeu.  u If 
I were  to  take  you  in  hand,  I would  soon  effect  a reform.” 

“ I think  I am  very  well  as  I am,  and  want  no  reform  said  Bertram 
laughing ; 66  but  still,  you  may  take  me  in  hand,  if  you  like  ; I don’t  know 
that  I should  object  to  that ; especially  when  the  hand  that  is  to  take  me  in 
it,  is  so  white  and  so  soft,”  said  he,  with  another  boyish  struggle  between 
admiration  and  embarrassment,  as  he  took  her  hand  and  attempted  to 
kiss  it. 

“ One  of  the  first  things  I should  expect  you  to  alter,  would  be  your 
conduct  to  women,”  said  Mademoiselle  Lafeu,  with  the  little  air  of  supe- 
riority which  girls  of  her  age  allow  themselves  to  lads  of  his ; u you 
should  be  less  forward  to  me,  and  more  polite  to  Helena ; I would  have 
more  deference,  more  fitting  attention  to  each.  See,  where  she  comes, 
with  your  fishing-tackle ; and  yet  you  do  not  hasten  to  meet  her,  and  re- 
lieve her  of  the  burthen.  You  a cavalier  fit  for  a Paris  circle,  and  so 
insensible  to  a woman’s  due !” 

“ On  the  contrary,”  said  Bertram,  with  his  careless  laugh ; u I’m 
quite  sensibl  3 of  her  peculiar  excellence ; I’m  thankful  to  her,  as  I am 
to  my  dogs,  for  what  they  do  for  me ; I’m  bound  to  acknowledge  her 
ministry,  as  I am  to  my  hounds  for  their  attachment,  and  their  faithful 
fetching  and  carrying.  I’m  a judge  of  dogs,  you  know — and  she’s  a 
good  spaniel.” 

During  the  visit  of  Maudlin  Lafeu,  Bertram  heard  a good  many 
truths  with  respect  to  his  haughty  conduct,  told  him  with  no  sparing  of 
his  self-love  by  the  young  Parisian ; but  they  served  little  else  than  to 
pique  him  into  extra  admiration  of  herself ; while  they  rather  increased 
than  diminished  his  contempt  of  Helena,  whose  modest  zeal  showed  like 
servility  against  Maudlin’s  freedoms ; and  where  humility  seemed  only 
conscious  inferiority  both  of  beauty  and  station,  when  seen  in  contrast 


HELENA ; 


270 

with  Mademoiselle  Lafeu’s  high-bred  ease,  court  manners,  and  various 
graces  of  person  and  demeanour. 

Bertram  was  a spoiled  child  by  birth,  by  fortune,  and  by  circum- 
stance 5 and  like  many  spoiled  people,  he  felt  little  preference  for  those 
who  spoiled  him.  It  seems  an  instinct,  teaching  the  humoured  person 
to  disregard  those  who  work  this  evil,  at  the  very  time  that  he  avails 
himself  of  their  indulgence.  He  uses  and  abuses  the  ministrants  to  his 
will,  while  he  feels  an  involuntary  respect  for  those  who  inconveniently 
yet  boldly  oppose  its  tyrannous  dictates.  He  disdains  ar  d tramples  on 
those  whose  value  he  acknowledges  by  accepting  their  service,  while  he 
courts  and  renders  homage  to  those  who  treat  him  with  indifference,  and 
whose  sole  claim  to  superiority  may  be  their  own  assumption. 

Time  passes  on.  Bertram’s  boyish  desire  to  visit  Paris  is  yet  unful- 
filled ; for  his  father,  firm  in  his  conviction  that  a court  is  an  unfit  school 
for  youth,  as  the  capital  is  an  unfit  asylum,  until  his  son’s  principles  shall 
be  more  formed,  and  his  studies  farther  advanced,  has  sent  him  to  college 
for  a few  years. 

The  king  still  frequently  detains  his  favourite  by  his  side ; and  the 
count,  anxious  to  secure  for  his  wife  affectionate  companionship  in  her 
solitude  at  Bousillon,  undertakes  the  entire  charge  of  Helena.  He  writes 
to  her  father,  entreating  him  to  commit  her  to  the  countess’s  and  his 
own  care,  engaging  to  provide  her  with  masters  and  all  requisites  for  a 
solid  education. 

Gerard,  strictly  observant  of  that  moral  devotion,  in  which  alone  he 
finds  peace  for  his  wounded  spirit,  and  consecrating  the  whole  of  his 
earnings — accumulated  and  present — to  the  needs  of  his  poor  patients, 
reserves  to  himself  the  mere  pittance  requisite  in  his  self-imposed  asceti- 
cism, and  is  in  fact,  bare  of  ail,  save  renown  in  skill,  and  the  attachment 
of  grateful  hearts.  Thus  destitute  of  resources,  a voluntary  pauper — 
a devotee  to  penury  in  his  own  person,  as  in  his  tribute  to  the  exigen- 
cies of  a sacred  cause — Gerard  willingly  consents  to  a plan  that  secures 
for  his  child  an  education  and  a home,  which  he  himself  has  no  means 
of  giving  her. 

Helena  accordingly  remains  at  the  chateau  de  Bousillon,  growing  in 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


271 


knowledge,  accomplishment,  and  virtue,  while  the  improvement  in  her 
health,  spirits,  and  mental  culture,  brings  corresponding  increase  of 
beauty ; and,  on  the  verge  of  womanhood,  she  possesses  as  many  attrac- 
tions of  worth  and  excellence,  as  she  presents  those  of  person  and  ma- 
tured loveliness,  which  her  early  childhood  promised. 

She  has  courage,  prudence,  constancy  in  an  eminent  degree.  She  is 
stable  in  resolve ; faithful  in  duty ; invincible  in  attachment ; and  she 
is  as  full  of  womanly  sweetness  and  gentleness,  as  if  her  character  were 
not  compounded  of  such  firm  elements.  True  strength  of  mind  is  less 
inconsistent  with  softness  of  heart  than  is  generally  or  willingly  allowed, 
by  those  who  injudiciously  or  interestedly  persuade  the  sex  that  weak- 
ness— moral,  mental,  and  physical,  is  their  most  winning  characteristic. 
Feeble-mindedness,  indecision,  vacillation,  cowardice,  want  of  solid  prin- 
ciple, lack  of  energy,  infirmity  of  purpose,  supineness  of  limb,  debility 
of  muscle,  enervation  of  frame,  and  the  thousand  foibles  of  soul  and  body 
that  are  supposed  amiable,  will  often  lead  to  a selfish  hardness,  and  an 
inflexibility  of  egoism  any  thing  but  womanly ; while  a loving  nature 
will  not  unfrequently  inspire  the  most  heroic  acts  of  fortitude,  dictate 
the  highest  deeds  of  bravery- — bravery  in  achievement — no  less  than  in 
endurance,  and  yet  detract  no  particle  from  the  sweet  grace  of  feminine 
reserve,  nor  abate  one  blush  of  sensitive  modesty. 

Such  was  Helena’s  nature  ; full  of  the  gentlest  strength  of  love  ; the 
most  unflinching  capability  of  sacrifice ; the  deepest  tenderness,  and  the 
bravest  courage,  the  maidenliest  diffidence,  with  the  most  lavish  gene- 
rosity ; the  truest  and  most  steadfast  affection,  with  the  most  passionate 
warmth. 

But  as  yet,  little  occasion  for  the  development  of  these  qualities  in 
Helena  presented  itself.  Till  such  occasion  should  arrive,  she  seemed 
a quiet,  earnest,  obliging  girl,  faithfully  attached  to  the  countess,  who 
ever  treated  her  with  well-nigh  a mother’s  regard. 

The  count  Bousillon,  when  able  to  be  at  the  chateau,  was  kind  and 
paternal  in  his  manner  to  Helena,  and  esteemed  her  highly  for  her  own 
merits,  for  the  credit  her  accomplishments  did  to  his  having  charged 
himself  with  her  breeding,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  pleasure  which  her 
society  and  affection  afforded  to  his  countess. 


272 


HELENA  J 


Bertram,  on  the  recurrence  of  his  vacations,  spent  them,  by  his 
parents’  wish,  at  Bousillon;  and  on  each  of  these  occasions  he  failed  not 
to  call  upon  Helena  for  her  sympathy  with  his  own  indignation  at  being 
compelled  still  to  defer  repairing  to  Paris,  where  he  might  spend  his 
holidays  so  much  more  to  his  liking. 

True  to  her  friendship,  at  the  expense  of  her  growing  love,  Helena 
failed  not  to  condole  with  him  on  these  repeated  disappointments,  and 
even  to  help  him  all  she  could  to  obtain  the  desired  permission,  al- 
though it  would  destroy  her  own  fondest  prospect,  — that  of  seeing 
him  at  Bousillon.  For  the  intervals  when  he  was  absent,  were  occu- 
pied in  thoughts  of  his  last  visit,  of  what  he  had  said,  of  how  he  had 
looked,  of  what  he  had  chiefly  liked  ; or  in  dreams  of  his  next-approach- 
ing one,  of  what  he  would  say,  of  how  he  would  look,  and  of  what  he 
might  like,  that  she  might  prepare  it  for  him  against  his  coming. 

At  length  a period  arrives  when  she  is  able  to  greet  him  with  some- 
thing that  she  knows  will  please  him.  She  is  so  eager  to  give  him  this 
gratification,  that  she  watches  by  the  park-gates  for  his  arrival  during 
the  whole  morning  that  he  is  expected  at  the  chateau.  The  welcome  sound 
of  his  horse’s  feet  reaches  her  ear ; she  springs  forward,  when  the  abrupt- 
ness of  her  appearance  startles  the  mettled  animal,  who  rears,  and 
plunges,  and  it  requires  all  Bertram’s  good  horsemanship  to  keep  him- 
self firm  in  his  seat. 

The  sight  of  his  danger,  the  fear  that  he  will  be  thrown,  makes 
Helena  turn  deadly  pale  ; but  she  does  not  utter  a single  shriek ; only, 
after  an  instant’s  dismayed  pause,  she  throws  herself  before  the  horse’s 
head,  regardless  of  her  own  imminent  peril,  and  endeavours  to  seize  the 
bridle. 

u Stand  out  of  the  way  ! Stand  back  ! You  will  be  trampled  down  !” 
shouts  Bertram.  u Leave  him  to  me  ; let  him  alone  ; I’ll  manage  him  ! 
So  then,  so  then,  Charlemagne  ! So  then  !” 

When  he  had  succeeded  in  reigning  in  the  steed,  and  reducing  him 
to  quietude,  Bertram  had  leisure  to  observe  who  it  was  that  had  thus 
crossed  his  path. 

“ Is  that  you,  Helena  ? How  could  you  be  so  absurd  as  to  start  out 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


273 


in  that  sudden  way  just  before  him  ? Any  horse  would  have  shyed  at 
such  a thing,  especially  a skittish  high-blooded  creature  like  this.  So 
then,  so  then,  my  beauty  !”  said  he,  patting  the  arching  neck  of  his 
favorite,  that  still  quivered  and  throbbed  in  every  one  of  its  swelling 
veins. 

“ I had  some  tidings  for  you,  that  I Knew  would  please  you — and  I 
could  not  help  coming  out  here  to  be  the  first  person  to  tell  them  to 
you.  It  jvas  very  rash  and  foolish  of  me,  to  rush  out  so  unawares  upon 
poor  Charlemagne.  Poor  fellow!  Poor  fellow!”  And  she  patted  the 
horse  on  the  same  spot  where  his  master’s  hand  had  so  lately  been. 

“ Well,  but  what  are  your  tidings,  Helena  ? You  don’t  tell  them  to 
me,  after  all said  he,  as  he  rode  on  slowly,  she  walking  by  his  side. 

“ My  lord  the  count  arrived  here  from  Paris,  yesterday,  and ” 

“My  father  at  Eousillon  !”  exclaimed  Bertram;  “ why  didn’t^  you 
Say  so  before,  Helena  ?”  And  the  young  man  was  about  to  ride  on 
impetuously. 

But  Helena  called  to  him  that  he  had  not  yet  heard  what  she  had 
to  tell ; and  with  a muttered  “ pshaw,”  he  checked  his  horse,  until  she 
should  come  up  with  him. 

I heard  the  count  tell  my  lady  yesterday,  that  he  had  lately  made 
the  acquaintance  of  two  young  men,  whom  he  thought  would  make 
admirable  friends  for  his  son.  They  are  brothers  of  the  name  of  Du- 
main,  have  just  obtained  commissions  in  the  army,  and  are  in  high  favor 
with  his  majesty.  He  said  that  their  excellent  qualities  made  him  take 
all  measures  to  secure  their  intimacy  for  you,  against  you  go  with 
him  to  Paris ; and  from  what  more  fell  from  him  on  the  subject,  I 
cannot  help  thinking,  my  lord  means  to  remove  you  from  college,  and  in- 
troduce you  at  court,  the  very  next  time  he  returns  to  attend  the  king.” 

“ Do  you  really  think  so,  Helena  ?”  said  Bertram  with  sparkling 
eyes  and  heightened  colour.  “ This  is  indeed  good  news  ! I long  to 
see  my  father,  and  learn  if  it  be  true.” 

He  flung  himself  off  his  horse,  as  he  approached  the  chateau,  and 
throwing  the  bridle  to  Helena,  said  : — “ Just  lead  Charlemagne  round 
to  the  stable  for  me ; I cannot  lose  a moment  in  seeing  my  father.” 


274 


HELENA ; 


Bertram  hurried  away ; while  Helena  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his 
handsome  agile  figure  as  long  as  it  was  in  sight,  and  wondered  at  the 
blank  that  seemed  to  fall  upon  her  spirit  as  he  disappeared. 

“ Why  am  I so  unhappy,  when  he  is  so  elated  V1  thought  she  ; 
“ Ought  I not  to  rejoice  that  he  is  pleased  ? What  delight  shone  in  his 
eyes  as  he  bent  their  hawk  glance  upon  me  while  I spoke  the  words. 
And  what  eyes  they  are  !”  She  threw  her  arm  over  the  saddle  where 
he  had  lately  sat,  and  looked  up  as  if  she  could  still  see  the  eyes  dancing 
and  sparkling  with  joy  at  her  tidings.  “ He  is  happy  to  gof  how  self- 
ish of  me  then,  not  to  feel  glad  that  he  is  going.  Glad  that  he  is  going ! 
Glad  at  his  absence  ! Ah,  how  can  I ? Glad  !”  she  repeated  in  a 
soft  sad  murmur,  as  she  hid  her  burning  cheek  against  the  neck  of  the 
horse. 

The  noble  animal  turned  its  head  towards  the  young  girl,  as  if  in 
dumb  sympathy  with  the  low  sobs  she  uttered,  and  the  tears  she  could 
not  repress,  which  trickled  down  the  glossy  skin  of  its  throat. 

She  spoke  fond  words,  caressing  and  patting  the  intelligent  creature ; 
bidding  it  bear  safely  him  whom  they  both  worshipped  as  their  ruler, 
their  guide,  their  dear  master  ; and  whispering  many  a gentle  entreaty 
that  it  might  not  be  long  ere  the  good  steed  should  bring  back  his  lord 
to  Bousillon,  where  loving  hearts  awaited  him,  that  bore  him  stronger 
and  more  constant  affection  than  all  the  friends  in  Paris,  young  or  old, 
man  or  woman. 

The  countess’s  page  at  this  instant  came  running  towards  Helena, 
bidding  her  hasten  in  to  his  lady,  who  was  in  sad  distress  at  a sudden 
attack  of  illness  which  had  seized  the  count  Rousillon,  only  a few  mi- 
nutes after  his  son’s  arrival. 

Giving  Charlemagne’s  rein  to  the  page,  while  she  hastily  dried  her 
eyes,  and  endeavoured  to  assume  as  much  calmness  as  might  be,  that 
she  should  be  the  fitter  to  support  and  assist  the  countess,  Helena 
hurried  to  the  saloon  of  the  chateau,  where  she  found  the  late  tranquil- 
lity in  which  she  had  left  it,  exchanged  for  a scene  of  the  greatest  con- 
fusion and  anxiety. 

On  a couch  lay  extended  the  count  of  Rousillon,  his  eyelids  closed, 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


275 


his  features  convulsed  and  distorted,  and  his  head  supported  on  the 
bosom  of  his  wife,  who,  with  her  usual  composure,  the  result  of  a placid 
temperament  and  a well-disciplined  mind,  was  administering  restora- 
tives j although  her  trembling  hand,  and  pallid  cheek  betrayed  the  in- 
ward agony  she  was  suffering.  Beside  the  couch,  and  holding  his  father’s 
hand,  knelt  Bertram,  while  behind  it  stood  Isbel,  the  countess’s  woman, 
who  was  holding  the  essences  and  remedies  with  which  she  supplied  her 
mistress  from  time  to  time.  Close  by,  stood  Binaldo,  the  steward,  who 
was  receiving  his  mistress’s  low-voiced  orders  to  despatch  messengers 
post-haste  to  Narbonne,  to  fetch  Gerard,  while  others  were  sent  else- 
where in  the  meantime  for  medical  assistance  nearer  at  hand.  In  one 
corner  of  the  room  was  Lavatch,  the  clown,  lustily  crying  and  sobbing 
in  the  sincerity  of  his  heart,  for  his  master,  to  whom  he  was  fondly 
attached. 

Helena  joined  the  anxious  group,  and  was  soon  busily  engaged  in 
her  own  quiet  steady  manner,  assisting,  relieving  each  in  their  several 
duties,  and  doing  much  by  her  judicious  suggestions,  and  calm  activity, 
to  contribute  to  the  ease  of  the  sufferer. 

Her  father,  Gerard’s  arrival  was  looked  for  with  the  greatest  solici- 
tude, as  the  harbinger  of  safety  to  the  count.  They  all,  the  countess 
especially,  had  such  faith  in  his  ability,  it  seemed  as  if  his  mere  pre- 
sence could  avert  danger,  as  if  his  fiat  could  assure  life. 

At  length  he  came.  For  a time,  his  skill,  together  with  the  power- 
ful remedies  he  brought  with  him  from  Narbonne,  as  best  suited  to  the 
nature  of  the  seizure  which  he  learned  to  have  been  the  count’s,  served 
to  restore  the  lord  of  Bousillon  to  something  of  his  former  health. 
But  he  soon  relapsed,  languished,  and  remained  for  several  weeks  in  a 
state  between  life  and  death.  During  this  period,  he  was  assiduously 
nursed  by  his  countess  and  Helena,  dutifully  attended  by  his  son  Ber- 
tram, and  treated  with  the  utmost  of  Gerard’s  care  and  skill. 

Indeed,  only  resources  of  art  such  as  were  known  to  this  eminent 
physician  could  have  preserved  him  so  long  alive.  Like  a lamp  spent 
of  oil,  his  flame  of  existence  flickered  from  day  to  day,  only  held  sus- 
pended by  the  cherishing  hand  of  friendly  care,  zealous  to  screen  from 
rude  approach — to  protect  from  extinction. 


276 


HELENA ; 


Each  day  brought  messengers  from  the  court,  charged  with  as* 
surances  of  sympathy  and  solicitude  from  the  king,  towards  his  esteemed 
and  faithful  servant.  Relatives  and  allies  in  Paris  sent  frequent  des- 
patches indicative  of  their  interest  in  the  progress  of  the  count’s  dis- 
order, and  their  hopes  of  his  recovery.  But  royal  kindness,  friendly 
demonstrations  of  attachment,  conjugal  and  filial  attention,  his  physi- 
cian’s zeal  and  ability,  were  ineffectual  to  rescue  or  to  save ; after  a pro- 
tracted languishment,  the  count  Rousillon  expired,  surrounded  by  those 
he  loved,  and  respected  by  all  who  knew  him. 

Gerard,  who  had  a suite  of  apartments  devoted  to  his  use  during  his 
sojourn  at  Rousillon,  now  talked  of  retiring  to  his  duties  at  Narbonne. 
The  countess,  much  as  she  would  have  desired  to  retain  so  valued  a 
friend  near  her,  could  not  withstand  the  plea  that  his  poor  patients 
would  have  already  missed  him,  and  needed  his  presence.  But  as  it 
was  fixed  that  when  the  period  of  mourning  for  his  father  should  have 
expired,  Bertram  should  go  to  Paris  and  pay  his  respects  to  the  king, 
under  the  auspices  of  the  count’s  old  friend,  the  lord  Lafeu,  the  countess 
made  it  her  entreaty  to  Gerard,  that  he  would  still  indulge  her  with  the 
society  of  his  daughter  Helena. 

He  could  not  withold  his  consent  to  the  bereaved  countess  in  her 
sorrow ; although  he  had  learned  to  perceive  the  solace  which  his  daugh- 
ter’s companionship  would  now  afford  to  himself.  In  his  late  renewed 
intercourse  with  her,  he  had  had  opportunity  of  becoming  acquainted 
with  her  true  worth.  In  the  sobered  and  time-softened  grief  of  his  own 
heart,  in  the  comparative  leisure  of  thought  which  his  situation  recently 
permitted,  he  had  been  able  to  estimate  the  many  excellencies  of  heart 
and  mind  which  distinguished  his  Helena,  and  he  had  now  felt  that  her 
presence  would  be  as  great  a comfort  as  it  had  formerly  been  an  in- 
creased distress  to  him.  But  Gerard  was  not  the  being  to  allow  a self- 
ish motive,  however  powerful,  to  influence  him,  where  the  happiness  of  a 
fellow-creature  was  involved  in  any  sacrifice  he  could  make ; therefore, 
with  a suitable  acknowledgement  to  his  patroness  for  her  friendship 
towards  him  and  his,  he  prepared  to  return  alone  to  Narbonne. 

On  the  eve  of  the  day  fixed  for  his  departure,  he  sought  Rinaldo,  the 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


277 


steward,  and  bade  him  make  bis  excuses  to  the  lady  of  Rousillon,  or  her 
son,  should  either  of  them  enquire  for  him  when  the  family  assembled  to 
dinner,  and  to  say  that  he  had  private  business  a league  or  two  from  the 
chateau,  which  might  probably  defer  his  return  until  eventide.  When 
Rinaldo  gave  this  message  to  his  mistress,  Helena  happened  to  be  with- 
in hearing ; and  on  questioning  the  steward  farther  respecting  her  father, 
she  learned  that  which  made  her  feel  involuntary  disquietude  respecting 
his  sudden  and  unannounced  absence.  Rinaldo,  who  was  a faithful  and 
attached  servitor,  and  a remarkably  discreet,  observant  man,  owned  to 
Helena  that  he  had  remarked  tokens  of  agitation  in  the  countenance  of 
her  parent,  and  that  his  voice  was  perturbed,  although  both  face  and 
tone  seemed  to  be  held  in  restraint,  as  if  he  would  fain  have  assumed  a 
calm  demeanour. 

Helena,  with  earnest  thanks  to  Rinaldo,  besought  him  to  add  to  his 
kindness,  by  telling  her  in  which  direction  her  father  had  taken  his  way 
through  the  park  that  morning  ; for,  perceiving  the  countess  and  her  son 
engaged  together  in  conversation,  she  knew  she  could  be  spared,  and 
determined  to  await  in  the  path  by  which  he  should  come  back,  the  re- 
turn of  her  father,  that  she  might  the  sooner  satisfy  her  anxiety  respect- 
ing him. 

The  afternoon  was  lovely.  As  Helena  crossed  the  drawbridge,  the 
stream,  which  supplied  the  moat,  spread  widening  through  the  landscape, 
and  its  waters,  sparkling  and  glistening  in  the  rays  of  the  sun,  gave 
movement  and  brilliancy  to  the  scene.  Beneath  the  lofty  trees  of  the 
park,  the  slanting  beams  shed  golden  light,  diffusing  a rich  glow  upon 
the  velvet  turf  beneath,  making  the  green  freshness  more  apparent, 
whilst  it  cast  twinkling  shadows,  and  shone  in  ruddy  patches  upon  bark, 
and  branch,  and  bole.  Beneath  the  shade,  stood  herds  of  deer, — the 
late  count  having  been  at  some  pains  to  introduce  the  breed  upon  his 
estate  ; — some  were  standing  at  gaze,  with  their  soft  yet  lustrous  eyes 
reflecting  the  brightness  of  some  straggling  sun-beam  ; others  reclining 
their  dappled  bodies  on  the  grassy  sward ; some  with  their  patient 
mouths,  ruminating ; all  whisking  and  vibrating  their  never-wearied 
tails,  in  ceaseless  rebuke  of  the  flies,  that  hummed,  and  floated,  and 
glanced,  and  darted  in  the  sunny  air. 


278 


HELENA  ! 


With  the  mottled  denizens  of  the  park,  as  with  all  the  animals  about 
the  domain,  Helena  was  on  excellent  terms ; the  lordly  stag  would  scarce 
withdraw  his  branching  antlers  from  her  reach,  or  the  timid  doe  start 
from  her  side,  when  she  approached  their  haunts,  and  stood  among  them, 
with  some  tempting  morsel  in  her  hand  for  them,  or  a gentle  caress,  or 
a coaxing  word  of  salute.  • 

But  now  she  tarried  not  to  fondle  the  deer,  but  kept  still  on,  hoping 
to  meet  her  father  soon. 

But  the  golden  sun-rays  ever  slanted  more  and  more ; the  rich  haze 
on  the  landscape  faded ; the  glory  settled  downward,  toward  the  hori- 
zon ; the  sky  paled  its  azure  hue ; the  trees  wore  a veil  of  purple ; the 
grass  was  bespread  with  dewy  sheen ; and  the  still  breath  of  evening 
crept  over  all. 

By  and  bye  a star  twinkled  forth ; then  another ; and  ttgain  more ; 
and  then  the  moon  arose  ; and  yet  Helena  was  seeking  her  father ; and 
yet  he  came  not. 

She  had  reached  the  extremity  of  the  park,  and  was  hesitating 
whether  she  might  not  miss  him,  by  passing  through  the  gate,  and  pro- 
ceeding farther,  when  she  perceived  approaching  at  a distance  a figure 
that  she  at  once  recognized  to  be  his. 

She  hastened  towards  him  uttering  his  name. 

He  did  not  answer ; his  face  was  rigid  and  deathly  white ; for  an 
instant  he  looked  wildly  in  her  face ; then  suddenly  he  caught  her  in 
his  arms,  and  burst  into  a passion  of  tears. 

To  behold  the  weeping  of  a man  is  always  terrible ; to  behold  that  of 
a father,  to  feel  his  frame  torn  and  shaken  by  the  strength  of  an  irre- 
sistible emotion,  to  find  herself  clasped  to  his  bosom  convulsed  and 
swollen  with  the  fierce  strife  between  anguish  and*  the  desire  to  control 
its  expression, — how  overwhelming  to  a daughter,  a being  like  Helena  ! 

She  strove  to  compose  him,  to  control  her  own  agitation  that  she 
might  the  better  soothe  his.  At  length  he  found  voice  to  say : — 

u Be  not  alarmed,  my  Helena ! Forgive  me,  my  child  ! It  was 
beyond  my  power,  or  you  should  not  have  witnessed  this  ! But  it  has 
saved  your  father,  Helena ; it  has  relieved  his  bursting  heart,  which 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


279 


felse  must  have  broken  ; and  you  will  pardon  your  own  pain,  that  it  has 
assuaged  his.” 

As  they  returned  together,  she  gathered  from  his  broken  words  that 
he  had  been  drawn  by  an  invincible  desire,  to  visit  once  more  the  old 
pavilion  (the  farm  itself  had  long  since  passed  into  other  hands,  on  the 
death  of  Gabrielle’s  father),  before  he  quitted,  probably  for  ever,  the 
vicinity  of  a spot  so  hallowed  to  his  remembrance.  The  scene  itself, 
however,  had  awakened  so  many  tender  memories,  so  many  bitter  re- 
grets, had  reopened  such  cruel  wounds,  that  Gerard  had  been  thrown 
into  a kind  of  swoon,  from  which  he  had  only  recovered  to  stagger  forth 
in  renewed  misery  from  a place  that  was  fraught  with  so  much  anguish 
of  recollection.  He  had  made  his  way  back  somehow,  scarcely  restored 
from  that  fainting-fit,  when  the  sight  of  his  child  and  hers , had  merci- 
fully brought  forth  the  gush  of  tears  which  had  in  all  probability  pre- 
served him  from  delirium  or  death. 

But  the  blow  had  been  dealt ; the  sentence  had  passed.  Although 
the  timely  advent  of  his  daughter  had  averted  the  immediate  result,  yet 
Gerard  had  in  reality  received  his  mortal  stroke  in  that  old  pavilion- 
chamber.  On  reaching  the  chateau,  he  withdrew  immediately  to  his 
apartment,  and  would  not  permit  his  daughter  to  remain  by  his  bedside, 
though  she  entreated  him  long  and  urgently  to  let  her  stay  with  him. 

On  the  next  day,  which  had  been  fixed  for  his  return  to  Narbonne, 
he  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  he  was  unable  to  attempt  the 
journey,  being  too  ill,  indeed,  to  rise  from  his  bed.  Helena  hung  over 
him,  and  besought  him  to  tell  her  what  might  be  devised  for  his  relief. 

“ There  is  no  medicine  now  that  can  give  me  life  said  he.  “ One 
there  is,  indeed,  which  might  relieve  this  oppression — but  it  is  no  mat- 
ter, it  cannot  avail  to  baffle  death— it  could  only  postpone  his  coming ; 
his  summons  is  already  issued.  Grieve  not,  my  child,  my  Helena ; it 
carries  no  terrors  with  it  to  me.  The  grave  to  me  has  long  been  a 
wished-for  haven,  a peaceful  refuge,  where  I may  hope  to  rejoin  my  lost 
one,  and  with  her  to  abide  evermore  in  that  joyful  realm  beyond. 

Helena  by  every  winning  persuasion,  by  every  gentle  art,  taught  her 
by  her  loving  perseverance  of  nature,  strove  to  discover  what  and  where 


280 


HELENA ; 


this  medicine  was,  that  she  might  seek  it,  to  lighten,  if  not  destroy,  his 
disease ; and  at  length  Gerard  told  her,  by  way  of  putting  a stop  en- 
tirely to  her  anxiety  on  the  subject,  that  it  was  in  a certain  medicine- 
chest  in  his  little  book-room  at  Narbonne. 

Far  from  ending  her  solicitude  on  the  point,  this  intelligence  only 
awakened  an  invincible  desire  to  obtain  the  medicine,  and  she  inwardly . 
resolved  to  set  out  for  Narbonne  herself  in  quest  of  it.  She  no  sooner 
beheld  her  father  sink  into  a doze,  than  she  stationed  Isbel  by  his  bed- 
side, with  an  injunction  to  watch,  while  she  herself  went  to  the  countess 
of  Rousillon  and  implored  her  permission  to  depart  at  once  in  search  of 
the  medicine-chest  her  father  had  mentioned. 

The  countess  applauded  her  pious  resolve,  but  showing  her  that  her 
duty  claimed  her  attendance  by  her  father’s  side,  even  more  than  her 
journey  in  quest  of  the  remedy,  promised  Helena  that  she  would  send 
her  steward,  Rinaldo,  to  Narbonne  for  the  medicine-chest. 

Upon  her  knees,  Helena  thanked  the  good  countess  for  her  sympathy 
and  help  in  a daughter’s  distress  ; and  once  more  repaired  to  her  father’s 
bedside. 

During  that  day,  and  part  of  the  next,  Gerard  remained  in  a sort  of 
stupor.  From  this  he  awakened  somewhat  better,  and  spoke  to  his 
daughter  in  a cheerful  strain  of  hope  and  comfort.  He  bade  her  regard 
his  approaching  death  as  he  did,  as  a removal  from  suffering,  as  a 
period  to  grief,  and  as  a commencement  of  future  joy.  He  told  her 
that  her  promising  virtues  and  many  excellencies  gave  him  assurance 
that  their  present  separation  would  be  but  for  a time.  He  spoke  to 
her  candidly  of  the  good  he  perceived  in  her,  taught  her  how  best  to 
cultivate  and  increase  her  natural  tendencies  towards  it,  and  admon- 
ished  her  how  best  to  avoid  those  points  where  her  virtues  might  lead 
to  error. 

“You  possess  firmness,  steadiness,  constancy,  my  child,”  said  he; 
“ beware  that  they  become  not  hardness,  unrelentingness,  obstinacy.  You 
have  perseverance,  indefatigable  and  indomitable  courage,  in  pursuing 
an  object  that  you  conceive  to  be  right ; be  well  assured  that  the  ob- 
ject you  seek  is  right,  lest  your  perseverance  involve  you  in  evil,  and 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


281 


your  courage  be  but  rash  encounter  of  peril  and  ultimate  wrong.  Your 
spirit  of  persistance  may  be  productive  of  the  highest  good,  so  that  you 
let  it  not  degenerate  into  obstinacy,  wilfulness,  or  headstrong,  irrational 
inflexibility.  Be  sure  that  your  motives  are  pure,  your  means  inno- 
cent, and  your  aim  a hallowed  one,  and  then  give  full  scope  to  your 
native  disposition  ; then  let  nothing  abate  your  courage,  then  pursue 
the  dictates  of  your  own  resolved  heart  unswervingly,  unflinchingly, 
invincibly.  I have  that  faith  in  your  nature, — which  is  essentially  lov- 
ing and  generous,  as  well  as  persistive, — that  gives  me  confidence,  you 
will  secure  your  own  welfare,  win  your  own  happiness.” 

u Would  that  you  might  live  to  witness  it ! To  behold  the  result  of 
your  own  instructions,  my  father  !”  said  Helena.  u Why  cannot  you 
survive  to  see  the  maturing  of  your  child’s  destiny,  to  give  her  fresh 
precepts  for  making  it  a blest  one  ?” 

“ That  I might  help  towards  such  a consummation,”  said  he,  u I 
could  have  wished  my  strength  prolonged ; but  it  is  not  to  be.  My 
breath  is  failing,  and  the  revived  speech  that  has  been  granted  me,  is 
nearly  exhausted.” 

“ That  remedy,  that  medicine,  dear  father,  which  you  spoke  of, ” 

“ Ay,  it  might  have  lent  me  strength  to  speak  longer  to  thee,  my 
child ; and  for  that  it  had  been  welcome.  But  it  is  at  Narbonne  ; and 
it  is  but  spent  breath  to  sigh  for  that  which  is  far  away.  I,  who  must 
husband  every  moment’s  breathing  now,  for  thy  dear  sake,  my  Helena,” 
said  her  father,  with  a faint  smile,  “ will  not  waste  a single  gasp  in  vain 
aspiration.” 

Helena  returned  his  smile  with  a gay  and  hopeful  one,  as  she  whis- 
pered : — “ What  if  instead  of  being  far  away  at  Narrbone,  that  medi- 
cine-chest,— which  contains,  I trust,  health,  and  strength,  and  life  for 
my  father, — were  now  on  its  way  hither  % Actually  coming  ?” 

“ Is  it  so,  my  Helena  ?”  said  her  father,  as  if  his  effort  at  cheer  for 
her  sake,  and  the  prospect  of  aid  in  his  attempt,  gave  him  renewed 
energy.  “ Is  it  indeed  so  ?” 

“ Ay,  my  father ; this  is  one  of  the  instances  of  your  Helena’s  perse- 
verance, which  I hope  may  deserve  your  approval,  in  spite  of  its  having 


282 


HELENA ; 


been  maintained  against,  or  rather  without,  your  authority.  I was  so 
determined  to  obtain  it,  that  I would  have  risked  abandoning  your  sick- 
bed-, rather  than  not  have  it  here ; but  my  dear  lady,  the  countess,  in 
compassion  for  my  anxiety,  and  in  eagerness  to  secure  aught  that  might 
avail  you,  has  sent  Rinaldo  to  Narbonne  for  the  medicine-chest;  they 
expect  him  here  every  hour.” 

A glow  of  satisfaction  dwelt  upon  Gerard’s  features  as  his  daughter 
said  this ; and  for  some  time  after  she  had  spoken,  he  lay  silent,  with 
the  same  expression  of  content  upon  his  face.  He  seemed  to  be  endea- 
vouring to  gain  strength  by  rest  and  silence  that  he  might  speak  farther 
without  exhausting  himself  entirely.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  Helena 
for  hers,  and  laid  it  upon  the  pillow,  beneath  his  cheek.  After  a time 
he  said : — 

u Besides  the  boon  of  respite  to  myself,  which  that  medicine-chest 
contains — a respite  now  welcome  to  me  on  thy  account — it  holds  other 
things  which  make  its  coming  a satisfaction  to  me.  In  that  box  lie  many 
valuable  secrets,  the  hoarded  sum  of  many  years’  experience  and  prac- 
tice. Recipes  of  various  kinds  for  various  disorders,  jotted  down  at 
divers  times  by  myself ; several  rare  unguents,  drugs,  and  carefully- 
extracted  essences ; some  subtle  mixtures,  distillations,  and  condensed 
spirits ; together  with  explicit  declaration  of  their  curious  qualities  and 
sovereign  effects ; and  also  the  mode  of  using  these  recondite  medica- 
ments. Besides  this,  my  own  words,  should  they  be  permitted,  shall 
explain  to  you  the  healing  properties  and  peculiar  nature  of  the  several 
contents  of  this  chest,  which  I bequeath  to  you  my  Helena.  It  is  the 
fitting  inheritance  of  a poor  physician’s  child ; may  it  prove  a legacy 
eventually  prosperous  to  her,  as  it  has  been  hitherto  advantageous  to  her 
father.  The  abstruse  calculations,  the  profound  research  requisite  in 
their  formation,  with  the  active  duty  and  beneficial  results  attendant 
upon  their  application  and  administration  have  been  a solace  to  him  in 
periods  of  misery,  when  no  less  engrossing  a pursuit  would  have  sufficed. 
My  art  and  its  ministry  have  been  a refuge  to  me,  when  all  else  upon 
earth  failed  me.  May  its  bequeathed  treasures,  the  sole  ones  I have  to 
bestow  upon  her,  prove  the  basis  of  good  fortune  and  the  source  of  feli- 
city to  my  Helena !” 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


283 


Rinaldo  soon  returned  to  Rousillon,  bearing  with  him  the  precious 
medicine-chest.  The  remedy,  from  which  Gerard  augured  relief,  is 
efficacious.  His  death  is  deferred  until  he  has  fulfilled  his  desire  of  ac- 
quainting his  daughter  with  the  contents  of  the  box,  and  of  making  her 
mistress  of  the  numerous  valuable  secrets  belonging  to  each.  It  seems 
as  if  life  were  but  lent  him  until  this  task  is  effected,  and  as  if  life  were 
valuable  to  him  but  so  long  as  it  may  serve  this  end ; his  purpose  once 
accomplished,  he  resigns  life  as  a burthen,  and  his  parting  breath  exhales 
with  the  satisfaction  of  having  devoted  it  as  he  could  desire.  To  his 
daughter — to  the  daughter  of  his  Gabrielle — he  dedicates  his  last  sigh ; 
and  he  bids  her  farewell  in  the  hope  of  future  and  eternal  reunion  with 
those  two  sole  objects  of  his  earthly  affection. 

The  countess  of  Rousillon,  practised  in  equanimity  by  past  griefs, 
not  by  want  of  sensibility,  consoles  the  orphan  by  more  maternal  kind- 
ness than  ever.  To  her  care  and  protection  Helena  has  been  consigned, 
with  a dying  father’s  blessing  on  the  long  course  of  benevolence  which 
has  already  attended  his  child,  and  with  his  full  confidence  in  its  gra- 
cious continuance.  The  countess  and  Helena  support  each  other  under 
their  respective  losses,  by  mutual  sympathy,  tenderness,  and  affection. 

The  period  of  mourning  passes  in  acts  of  charity  and  kindness  towards 
those  without  the  walls  of  the  chateau,  and  in  gentle  words  and  deeds 
among  each  other,  the  surviving  home-circle  withinside. 

The  months  creep  by,  and  the  time  approaches  for  the  departure  of 
Bertram.  Helena’s  sorrow  is  twofold ; but  although  grief  for  her  father’s 
loss  serves  to  screen  that  which  she  feels  prospectively,  yet  conscious  love 
bids  her  hide  the  tears  which  have  so  natural  and  so  obvious  a source, 
lest  their  double  origin  be  suspected.  She  dares  not  trust  herself  now 
with  Bertram  ; and  though  she  feels  every  moment’s  absence  will  be  bit- 
terly regretted  hereafter,  when  a compelled  separation  will  prolong  the 
present  voluntary  one,  yet  she  shuns  his  presence,  and  inflicts  this  addi- 
tional pain  on  herself,  partly  to  inure  herself  to  the  coming  one,  partly 
to  hide  the  secret  which  she  instinctively  feels  is  ever  ready  to  betray 
its  existence. 

She  seeks  every  pretext  for  keeping  her  chamber ; or  wanders  away 


284 


HELENA  J 


solitarily  through  the  park,  where  she  may  indulge  her  melancholy  with 
unobserved  sighs  and  tears,  and  unheard  plaints  at  her  lowly  fate,  which 
forbids  the  hope  of  linking  it  with  one  so  far  above  her. 

“ And  were  I not  so  humble  of  degree,”  she  would  murmur,  “ yet 
still  I am  surely  unworthy  of  him  in  this  selfish  passion  which  would 
detain  him  here  to  waste  his  youth  and  nobleness  in  obscurity.  Spirit 
like  his,  pines  for  broader  range  than  the  tame  sports  of  the  chase  ; rank 
and  wealth  such  as  he  owns,  demand  a wider  field  of  benevolence  and 
influence  than  a country  estate  ; and  why  should  the  personal  graces 
which  adorn  him  be  denied  to  the  court  of  his  sovereign,  and  be  doomed 
to  rust  here  unseen?  Not  unseen?  ah,  not  unbeheld,  unnoted,  unglo- 
ried in  ! Only  too  dearly  prized — too  fondly  worshipped  ! And  if  but 
by  one  sole  worshipper,  yet  the  plenitude  of  her  idolatry  might  replace 
a train  of  less  adoring  devotees.  How  shall  I bear  his  absence  ? How 
do  I even  now  advance  its  season,  by  stealing  from  him,  and  abstaining 
from  the  joint  pain  and  delight  of  watching  his  face  while  yet  it  is  near 
me  ! The  time  will  come  when  I shall  vainly  wish  to  look  upon  the 
well-known  features  ; and  when,  though  pictured  faithfully  in  memory, 
I shall  pine  to  trace  them  in  their  living  beauty.  Is  it  that  I know  my 
unhappy  love  is  painted  on  my  own  face  that  I fear  to  trust  it  within 
his  ken  ? Traitor  to  its  mistress,  it  denies  her  the  only  joy  she  knows, 
by  revealing  the  too  great  depth  of*that  joy.  Unworthy  face  ! that  lacks 
beauty  in  itself,  and  betrays  the  suffrage  it  yields  to  his  ; yet  denying 
by  its  treachery,  the  view  of  the  very  beauty  and  sweet  favor  whose 
superiority  it  avows.  And  when  the  daily  presence  of  that  sweet  favor 
is  withdrawn,  shall  I not  feel  like  some  benighted  traveller  who  has  ne- 
glected the  waning  hours  of  light,  and  now  wanders  on  in  chill  and 
darkness,  bereft  of  the  blessed  sun,  who  sheds  his  rays,  and  dispenses 
warmth,  and  light,  and  comfort  elsewhere  ?” 

Helena  was  strolling  in  the  park  while  thus  she  mused,  lamenting ; 
the  deer  gathered  round  her,  in  expectation  of  their  accustomed  notice ; 
but  she  paid  little  heed  to  them  now,  so  occupied  were  her  thoughts. 

Presently  she  heard  approaching  footsteps  ; • and  on  raising  her 
head,  she  was  aware  of  an  extraordinary  figure  that  made  its  way 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


285 


towards  her,  bowing,  and  congeeing,  and  recommending  itself  to  her 
notice. 

It  was  that  of  a personage  equipped  in  the  most  extravagant  fashion. 
His  suit  was  of  saffron-colored  taffeta,  snipped  and  slashed,  and  guarded 
with  showy  gilt  lace,  and  hung  with  a profusion  of  glittering  buttons  and 
gaudy  scarfs.  A pair  of  bright  red  hose  garnished  his  legs,  which,  with 
his  arms,  were  bound  with  fluttering  bows  and  ends  of  ribbon,  that  made 
all  his  limbs  seem  gartered  alike.  By  his  side  hung  a long  sword  ; in 
his  belt  stuck  a dagger  ; and  he  wore  a plumed  hat  very  much  on  one 
side,  with  a spruce  defiant  air,  as  if  announcing  the  reckless,  roystering, 
bold  soldado. 

u Madam,”  said  he,  raising  his  hat,  and  advancing  towards  the  spot 
where  Helena  stood  ; but  cautiously  and  dubiously,  with  an  eye  cast 
upon  the  stags  and  their  towering  antlers,  which  plainly  indicated  the 
source  of  his  hesitation.  “ May  I beseech  of  your  ladyship’s  goodness 
to  inform  me  whether  this  be,  as  I suppose  it  is,  the  chateau  and  domain 
of  count  Rousillon  ?” 

u It  is,  monsieur  answered  she. 

“ And  may  I crave  farther  to  know  of  your  fair  grace,  whether  his 
lordship,  the  count  Rousillon,  be  at  present  at  the  chateau  ?” 

Helena  was  about  to  reply,  by  mentioning  the  count’s  death  ; but 
bethinking  her  that  Bertram  was  now  count  of  Rousillon,  she  answer- 
ed : — ■“  Unless  the  count  has  ridden  forth,  since  I left  the  chateau,  he  is 
probably  at  home  now  ; — but  if  you  proceed  to  the  gates,  sir,  the  serv- 
ants will  inform  you  whether  his  lordship  is  able  to  receive  you.” 

“ I am  charged  with  a letter  to  him  from  a dear  college  friend  of 
his,  madam,  introducing  to  his  acquaintance  my  poor  self,  whom  you  are 
to  know  by  name  as  Parolles,  and  by  profession  as  a soldier.  Of  apper- 
taining accomplishments  which  may  claim  your  ladyship’s  favor,  I shall 
say  nothing,  as  I trust  to  time  for  their  discovery,  or  of  deeds,  as  I think 
fame  may  one  day  blow  their  record  hither  ; but  I will  rest  my  present 
hope  of  a gracious  reception,  on  your  ladyship’s  own  indulgence,  of 
which  I behold  assurance  in  that  fair  form  and  benignant  aspect.” 
Helena  bowed  somewhat  loftily  to  this  flourish. 


286 


HELENA  J 


“I  would  crave  permission  to  tender  my  homage  at  once  on  your 
ladyship’s  fair  hand,”  said  Monsieur  Parolles,  “ but  that  I cannot  reach 
you,  surrounded  as  you  are  by  those  antlered  deer,  in  manner  of  Diana, 
the  huntress-goddess.  My  warfare  has  hitherto  been  with  man,  and  not 
with  stags  ; with  ramparted  fortalices,  not  with  embattled  antlers ; 
otherwise  I would  make  my  way  to  you,  through  these  living  defences, 
with  my  own  good  sword.” 

“You  might  not  be  permitted  to  assault  the  inoffensive  herd,  mom 
sieur ;”  said  she.  “ The  deer  are  held  protected  at  Rousillon.” 

“I  crave  your  ladyship’s  pardon; — but — which  way  lies  the  cha- 
teau ?”  said  he,  with  another  furtive  glance  at  the  deer. 

“Yonder,  monsieur;”  replied  she.  Then,  observing  his  dismay  at 
finding  that  she  pointed  in  a direction  where  a large  troop  of  stags  stood 
immediately  in  the  path,  she  added,  when  she  had  uttered  a clear  ring- 
ing sound  of  call,  to  which  the  deer  were  accustomed  as  a signal  to  gather 
close  round  her: — “You  may  pass  on,  monsieur,  there  is  nothing  to 
fear !” 

“ Fear,  madam !”  exclaimed  Parolles,  as  he  hastily  picked  his  way 
forwards  ; “ fear  ! But  I shall  find  meeter  opportunity,  I trust,  of  con- 
vincing you  that  fear  and  I are  unacquainted,  save  as  I inspire  it  to  my 
foes.” 

“ I have  a notion  that  monsieur  is  less  to  be  dreaded  as  a foe  than 
as  a friend  ;”  thought  Helena,  as  the  soldado  disappeared.  “ It  is  not 
the  friendship  of  such  a man  as  that,  or  I’m  greatly  mistaken,  that  the 
count  would  have  sought  for  his  son.” 

Monsieur  Parolles,  having  recovered  greater  dignity  of  step,  after  he 
had  lost  sight  of  the  deer,  lounged  on  until  he  came  to  the  drawbridge, 
against  a side-post  of  which  leaned  a tall,  gangling  lad,  eating  grapes 
with  great  voracity,  and  chucking  their  stalks  into  the  moat ; while  near 
to  him  stood  a bright-eyed,  cherry-cheeked  damsel,  who  was  holding  the 
basket  of  fruit  which  supplied  the  lad’s  enjoyment. 

“ Now  rest  thee  content,  Isbel,”  he  said,  while  he  slightly  varied  his 
occupation  of  chucking  the  grape-stalks  away,  by  chucking  the  damsel 
under  the  chin  ; “ be  not  impatient ; I have  promised  to  ask  my  lady’s 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


287 


good  leave ; and  it  shall  not  be  my  fault,  if  I do  not  shortly  marry 
thee !” 

The  damsel  was  about  to  reply,  but  looking  up  suddenly,  and  seeing 
Parolles  approach,  she  tripped  away  abruptly,  while  the  grape-eater 
turned  to  see  the  cause  of  her  startled  withdrawal. 

“ Save  you,  fair  sir  ;”  said  he  to  the  advancing  stranger. 

“ Save  you,  good  fellow ;”  replied  Parolles. 

u None  of  mine,  sir;”  said  the  tall  lad.  “ I hope  I know  my  place 
better  than  to  claim  fellowship  with  such  a sober-suited  gentleman.  My 
bauble  and  coxcomb  would  sort  but  ill  with  such  apparel  as  that said 
he,  pointing  to  the  frippery  which  decorated  the  person  of  Parolles ; 
who  replied : — 

“ I see,  friend,  now ; thou’rt  the  fool  here.” 

“ Ay,  sir said  Lavatch  ; “ and  no  great  argument  of  your  wit  that 
you  found  not  that  out  before.  It  is  the  part  of  wit  to  find  out  its  coun- 
terpart in  others,  giving  it  honor,  where  it  exists ; as  well  as  readily, 
though  pityingly,  to  discover  its  lack,  where  it  exists  not.  I warrant 
me  now,  the  fool  could  sooner  track  out  what  amount  of  folly  lies  in  the 
gallant  soldier,  than  you,  the  gallant  soldier,  can  perceive  folly  where  it 
dwells  openly, — in  the  fool.” 

“ Go  to,  thou’rt  privileged was  Parolles’  only  answer. 

“ Marry,  sir,  and  the  privilege  of  a jester  is  like  to  have  good  scope 
when  such  visitors  approach  the  chateau returned  the  clown.  “We 
have  been  dull  enough  of  late ; mourning  the  dead  is  no  season  for  jest- 
ing. When  good  men  die,  and  sincerity  mourns,  light-hearted  folly 
hangs  its  head  for  lack  of  employment,  and  takes  to  weeping  for  com- 
pany.” 

“ And  so,  my  lord,  the  late  count,  was  sincerely  lamented,  was  he, 
knave  ? Think’ st  thou,  in  truth,  no  gleam  of  satisfaction  lightened  the 
heir’s  regret,  eh?  No  redeeming  solace  in  the  fact  that  the  young  lord 
was  now  the  old  lord’s  substitute, — that  the  late  count’s  title  devolved 
upon  the  present  count  ?” 

“ Faith,  sir,  I cannot  tell;  the  long-deferred  hopes  of  heirship  may 
have  such  freaks  of  gladness ; jolly  survivorship,  that  comes  unexpectr 


288 


HELENA ; 


edly  into  the  property,  may  wink,  from  his  place  as  chief-mourner,  at 
grave-faced  sympathy,  watching  the  funeral  train.  Inheritance  is  a sore 
test  of  truth.  The  legatee-expectant  tears  his  hair  and  beats  his  breast, 
till  the  will  be  read;  then  adieu  to  lamentation,  and  curses  ensue. 
Railing  at  dead  men’s  wills  is  rifer  than  thanks ; and  few  people  leave 
testaments  that  pleasure  all  friends.  He  who  would  live  well  with  his 
relations  after  his  decease,  should  make  no  disposal  of  his  goods.  Let 
him,  if  he  would  have  posthumous  peace,  leave  his  survivors  to  fight  out 
their  respective  claims,  and  battle  among  themselves  their  administra- 
tion to  his  unbequeathed  chattels.  If  he  settle  their  dispute  before- 
hand by  a will,  they  assault  his  memory,  and  abuse  him,  instead  of 
each  other. 

u I met  one  pale  face  in  the  park,  that  bespoke  true  sadness  at  heart, 
matching  the  outer  garb  said  Monsieur  Parolles.  11  It  was  that  of  a 
young  lady.  Daughter  or  niece  to  the  late  lord  Rousillon,  I take  it  ? 
Though  I never  heard  that  the  young  count  mentioned  a sister.  He 
spoke  but  of  a mother.” 

u Marry,  sir,  the  lady  you  met  was  no  relation  of  our  house.  She 
claims  no  title  to  the  name  of  Rousillon.  All  her  having  is,  that  she’s 
good  and  fair ; all  her  descent  is,  poverty  and  an  honest  name ; all  her 
title  is,  Helena,  the  doctor’s  daughter.” 

“ Poor  ! A doctor’s  daughter  !”  exclaimed  Parolles  ; u truly,  she 
gave  herself  as  many  airs  as  though  she  had  been  Croesus’  heiress ; 
and  could  not  have  spoken  more  haughtily,  had  she  owned,  not  only  the 
whole  herd  of  those  confounded  horned  beasts — those  outlandish  branch- 
headed animals — but  the  park  where  they  range.  She  pointed  to  the 
chateau  with  as  magnificent  a gesture  as  if  she  had  been  its  sovereign 
lady-mistress.” 

“ It’s  strange  what  lofty  style  modest  merit  will  ofttimes  use,  when 
repressing  presumption  said  the  clown.  “ Besides,  timid  virgins  gain 
confidence  from  Valour’s  presence;  and  it  might  have  been  that  your 
worship’s  soldierly  aspect  inspired  ma’amselle  Helena  with  courage  more 
than  ordinary — with  enough  to  confront  even  audacity  itself.” 

u My  address  had  nothing  in  it  of  presumption  or  audacity  either,  sir 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


289 


knave retorted  Parolles.  u I accosted  her  with  only  too  much  respect, 
I find,  now  that  I learn  what  her  claims  really  are.” 

u By  my  troth,  sir,”  said  Lavatch,  “ simple  worth,  poor  honesty, 
native  goodness,  fair  innocence,  and  such  like  claims  to  regard,  are  none 
with  those  who  know  what  is  due  to  wealth,  rank,  and  station.  We  men 
of  the  world  hold  them  at  their  true  value.  We  use  them  both  as  they 
ought  to  be  used.  Honesty  and  innocence,  joined  to  poverty  and 
beauty,  we  make  our  prey;  while  wealth  and  high  birth  we  adulate, 
and  contrive  that  its  bounty  shall  requite  our  fawning.  Is’t  not  so, 
monsieur?” 

u I have  not  time  to  stay  dallying  here  with  thee,  fool ;”  said  Pa- 
rolles. u I will  find  fitter  time  to  argue  conclusions  with  thee.  For  the 
present,  I shall  desire  thee  to  convey  this  letter  to  thy  young  master, 
count  Bertram  of  Kousillon ; and  to  inform  him  that  its  bearer  is  mon- 
sieur Parolles,  a gentleman,  and  a soldier ; and  one,  moreover,  that  is 
known  unto  a mutual  friend — the  writer  of  that  epistle.” 

“ I will  send  the  letter  by  the  page  to  my  young  lord ;”  said  the 
clown.  “ A fool’s  office  is  to  find  occasion  for  mirth,  and  to  furnish 
matter  for  entertainment  from  his  own  poor  mother-wit,  not  to  bandy  to 
and  fro  the  conceits  of  strangers,  and  play  the  go-between  to  other  folks’ 
brains.  Though  the  paper  may  be  the  work  of  folly,  as  well  as  the  her- 
ald and  harbinger  of  folly,  it  shall  not  be  the  work  of  the  fool  to  carry 
it  to  my  lord.” 

Monsieur  Parolles’  letter  of  introduction, — which  set  him  forth  as  a 
valiant  and  experienced  soldier,  a man  of  great  knowledge,  versed  in 
several  languages,  and  a generally  accomplished  person, — was  favorably 
received  by  the  young  count ; who  welcomed  his  visitor  with  warmth 
accordingly,  retaining  him  at  Bousillon  as  his  friend  and  companion, 
until  his  departure  for  Paris,  and  inviting  him  to  go  thither  also. 

After  Helena’s  first  meeting  with  the  new  visitor  at  the  chateau,  she 
was  a little  surprised  at  the  alteration  in  his  mode  of  accosting  her, 
which  was  subsequently  as  impertinently  familiar,  as  it  had  then  been 
observant  and  deferential ; but  divining  the  true  source  of  the  change, 
she  was  as  much  amused  as  surprised. 


290 


HELENA  J 


The  countess  had  just  left  the  saloon,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  son, 
whom  she  was  about  to  present  with  a valued  memorial  of  his  late  father. 
It  was  a ring,  an  heir-loom  in  the  family,  which  she  had  hitherto  pre- 
served in  a casket  in  her  own  private  chamber,  whither  she  now  led  the 
way,  with  Bertram,  that  she  might  give  him  some  loving  counsel  at  the 
same  time  that  she  bestowed  the  jewel. 

Helena  was  busied  in  arranging  some  carnations  and  myrtle  in  a 
vase  near  the  seat  which  was  usually  occupied  by  her  benefactress,  who 
was  fond  of  flowers  ; and  Parolles  was  lounging  in  a window-seat  close 
by,  occupied  in  no  more  serious  employment  than  tapping  his  fingers 
with  the  point  of  his  sheathed  dagger. 

“ The  young  count  will  be  glad  to  be  absolved  from  attendance  on 
the  maternal  apron-string,  though  his  present  fealty  is  touching  to  be- 
hold ;”  said  Monsieur  Parolles.  “ We  shall  both  be  glad  of  enfranchise- 
ment from  women’s  society — which  hath  its  charms,  doubtless — but 
which  is  apt  to  be  insipid  after  a time,  to  us  who  pant  for  congenial  in- 
tercourse with  masculine  minds,  for  manly  pursuits,  and  stirring  scenes, 
and  ambition,  and  wars,  and  active  life.  The  only  drawback  I shall  feel, 
will  be  commiseration  for  the  regret  we  shall  leave  behind  us ; the  gap 
which  our  loss  will  create  in  the  circle  here.” 

££  Monsieur  Parolles  hath  the  compassionate  tenderness  which  best 
assorts  with  bravery;”  said  Helena.  “ Yalour  such  as  his,  must  always 
be  pitiful.” 

“ It  is  as  remorseful  to  its  victims,  as  it  is  fearful  to  its  opponents ;” 
said  he. 

“ Fearful,  certainly,  with  them  ; who  else  ?”  rejoined  Helena.  “Cour 
age  such  as  yours,  monsieur,  fears  none  so  surely,  as  those  who  show  it 
a bold  face  at  first.” 

“ Poor  devils  ! they  fear  what  they  might  trust,  if  they  knew  its 
chivalrous  consideration  for  the  fallen said  Parolles. 

“ They  might  safely  confide  in  its  forbearance,  I’ve  no  doubt said 

she. 

il  You  show  some  acquaintance  with  true  valour,  my  princess  of  gen- 


THE  PHYSICIAN’S  ORPHAN. 


291 


tlewomen,  and  deserve  its  commendation  in  return ; I can  tell  thee,  I 
approve  thy  perspicacity  exceedingly.” 

“ I hope  it  will  always  serve  me  to  distinguish  true  valour  from  its 
counterfeit,  monsieur  Parolles  said  she,  curtseying  to  him. 

Some  days  elapsed ; and  then  the  lord  Lafeu  arrived,  bringing  with 
him  a gracious  mandate  from  the  king,  containing  his  majesty’s  desire 
to  see  the  young  count  Bertram  of  Bousillon  at  court. 

The  countess  receives  the  valued  friend  of  her  husband  with  high- 
est tokens  of  respect  and  cordiality,  although  he  is  come  with  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  taking  away  her  son,  so  doubly  dear  to  her  now,  since 
she  has  lost  his  father,  whose  image  he  is  in  shape  and  feature. 

Previous  to  their  setting  forth,  the  whole  company  assembles  in  the 
saloon  at  Rousillon.  The  countess  presents  her  favorite  Helena  to  the 
excellent  old  lord  Lafeu,  who  speaks  kindly  and  encouragingly  to  the 
maiden. 

For  poor  Helena  is  endeavouring  to  master  her  emotion,  to  conceal 
her  overwhelming  grief.  Now  that  the  time  is  actually  come,  for  part- 
ing with  the  object  of  her  secret  passion,  she  knows  not  how  to  suppress 
her  sobs  and  tears ; and  is  relieved  when  the  countess’s  timely  allusion 
to  her  father’s  loss,  affords  a pretext  for  allowing  them  to  flow  unre- 
strainedly. 

She  weeps,  and  says : — * 

u I do  affect  a sorrow , indeed,  and  yet  I have  it  tooP 


The  rest  of  Helena’s  fortunes  is  set  forth  where  ‘ still  the  fine’s  the 

crown.5 


TALE  IV. 


DESDEMONA;  THE  MAGNIEICO’S  CHILD. 


“ A maid 

That  paragons  description,  and  wild  fame ; 
One  that  excels  the  quirks  of  blazoning  pens, 
And  in  the  essential  vesture  of  creation, 

Does  bear  all  6X06116007.” 

Othello. 


The  gondola  glided  on.  Beneath  its  black  awning, — extended  at  full 
length  upon  its  black  leather  cushions, — lay  a young  man,  clothed  in  a 
suit  of  deep  mourning.  But  in  his  face  there  was  nothing  that  assorted 
with  these  swart  environments.  No  shadow,  save  the  one  from  the  sad- 
colored  curtains,  darkened  the  countenance,  which  was  radiant  with 
hopeful  happy  thoughts.  No  regret  for  the  past,  no  misgiving  of  the 
future,  cast  a single  cloud  athwart  the  sunshine  of  his  fancy,  reflected 
so  beamingly  in  his  look.  For  though  the  suit  he  wore  was  for  a father, 
yet  so  harsh  a parent,  so  unreasonable  a tyrant  had  that  father  been, 
that  his  recent  decease  was  felt  to  be  emancipation  from  slavery,  rather 
than  a loss  and  a sorrow.  Death  had  freed  the  young  man  from  a more 
intolerable  bondage  than  that  of  body — thraldom  of  spirit ; and  he  was 
now  hastening  to  claim  the  dearest  privilege  of  human  liberty — choice 
in  love,  in  marriage, — which  had  hitherto  been  denied  to  him.  In  de- 
ference to  his  father’s  will,  in  dread  of  his  father’s  power, — which  would 
not  have  hesitated  at  aught  that  could  secure  their  sway, — this  young 
man  had  carefully  concealed  an  attachment  he  had  conceived  for  a very 
beautiful  girl  of  humble  fortunes,  and  the  marriage  to  which  this  attach- 


296 


DESDEMONA  ; 


ment  had  led.  But  now,  that  he  was  free  to  avow  his  choice, — to  confer 
on  her  the  rank  which  was  hers  by  right,  but  which  she  had  consented 
to  waive  until  such  time  as  he  could  safely  proclaim  it  hers, — he  lost  no 
time  in  seeking  her,  that  she  might  share  his  home,  his  name,  and  the 
titles  and  honors  with  which  his  father’s  decease  had  invested  him. 

Yet,  with  the  true  romance  of  a young  lover,  he  preferred  even  now 
seeking  her  in  the  quiet  unostentatious  style  with  which  he  had  hitherto 
stolon  to  the  humble  quarter  where  she  lived.  The  secrecy  that  he  had 
till  now  been  compelled  to  observe,  was  still  maintained  from  choice. 
The  simple  gondola,  unblazoned  with  the  arms  of  his  family,  and  pro- 
pelled by  a single  boatman, — his  own  confidential  servant,  suited  best 
with  the  coy  reserve  of  love,  jealous  of  betraying  its  cherished  privileges 
to  worldly  or  indifferent  eyes.  With  the  lingering  fondness  we  feel  for 
things  which  have  afforded  us  a secret  pleasure,  even  at  the  moment 
when  we  are  about  voluntarily  to  yield  them,  this  young  husband  still 
clung  to  the  mystery  which  had  lent  such  a charm  to  the  furtive  inter- 
views which  had  until  now  been  the  only  ones  he  could  allow  himself 
with  his  Erminia ; and  on  the  very  occasion  when  he  was  about  to  bring 
her  forth  to  the  world,  the  coroneted  wife  of  a Venetian  magnifico,  he 
yet  once  again  indulged  himself  with  a meeting  which  should  retain  the 
old  charm  of  secrecy  and  silence,  all  enshrouded  from  observance, 
either  of  form  and  ceremony,  or  of  idle  curiosity.  The  coming  time, 
when  he  should  present  to  his  friends  this  wife  in  all  her  magnificence 
of  beauty — so  well  fitted  to  adorn  the  magnificence  of  wealth  and  sta- 
tion to  which  she  would  then  be  raised — was  not  without  its  promise  of 
pleasure ; but  meantime,  his  fancy  found  still  choicer  pleasure  in  dwell- 
ing upon  all  the  circumstances  of  simple  happiness  which  had  hitherto 
marked  his  wedded  life. 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  leaned  back  upon  the  gondola-cushions,  as 
the  boat  glided  on  in  smooth  unison  with  the  current  of  his  thoughts. 
Luxuriously,  placidly,  they  flowed  on,  picturing  the  successive  events  of 
his  recent  existence.  His  memory  presented  none  but  pleasant  images. 
He  retraced  the  first  time  he  had  beheld  his  Erminia.  He  remembered 
well  the  sultry  afternoon,  when,  returning  by  an  obscure  and  unfrequent- 


THE  MAGNIEICO’S  CHILD, 


297 


ed  canal,  from  a long  course  he  had  been  taking  in  his  gondola,  he  ob- 
served her  seated  by  the  side  of  her  old  blind  father,  just  within  the 
tawny  shadow  of  the  curtain  which  screened  their  doorway.  He  re- 
membered how  he  had  thought  her  of  a saint-like  beauty,  as  she  leaned 
towards  the  old  man,  with  her  soft  full  eyes  fixed  upon  his  sightless 
ones,  in  tenderness,  in  sympathy,  in  anxiety  to  discover  how  best  she 
might  minister  to  his  comfort  or  his  joy.  As  the  folds  of  the  heavy 
curtain  fell  around  her,  and  cast  the  reflection  of  their  warm  orange  hue 
upon  her  upturned  face,  and  shed  a deep  golden  suffusion  round  her  rich 
hair,  and  over  her  bending  figure,  she  had  seemed  an  incarnation  of  im- 
mortal goodness  and  grace.  He  remembered  even  the  small  window, 
above  the  doorway,  with  its  stage  and  trellis  of  commonest  wood  ; yet 
filled  with  luxuriant  leaves,  and  blossoms,  and  branches,  some  trained, 
some  drooping  and  flaunting,  that  bespoke  taste,  and  womanly  arrange- 
ment, and  love  of  natural  beauty,  which  could  bring  plants  to  aid  in 
concealing  the  almost  squalid  plainness  of  their  dwelling.  He  remem- 
bered his  unwonted  timidity,  which  bade  him  hesitate,  ere  he  stepped 
from  the  boat,  and  ventured  to  approach  the  old  man,  with  an  offering 
of  some  flowers  which  he  had  just  brought  from  the  pleasure  gardens 
that  his  father  possessed  on  the  nearest  shore  of  the  main  land.  He 
remembered  the  courteous  action,  almost  mingled  with  condescension, 
with  which  the  old  blind  man  had  accepted  the  gift ; approving  their 
beauty,  which  the  redolence  of  their  perfume  rendered  perceptible  to 
him,  and  thanking  the  profferer  for  enabling  him  to  enjoy  a pleasure 
rare  indeed  to  a dweller  in  the  city  of  the  sea,  and  doubly  welcome  to 
one  whose  pleasures  of  sense  were  so  limited.  The  manner  in  which 
the  blind  man  expressed  himself,  had  struck  the  younger  one,  as  betoken- 
ing rank  and  breeding  far  superior  to  his  apparent  condition ; while  the 
gracious  beauty  of  his  daughter  seemed  no  less  indicative  of  a higher 
grade  than  their  coarse  garments  and  obscure  dwelling  proclaimed.  He 
remembered  how  soon  after  that  first  interview,  he  had  sought  another. 
He  remembered  the  moonlight  night  when  he  had  first  encountered  her 
alone  ; when,  catching  a glimpse  of  her  within  the  little  embowered  win- 
dow, he  had  succeeded  in  persuading  her  to  allow  him  a few  moments’ 


298 


DESDEMONA  ! 


converse.  He  well  remembered  how  these  moments  had  been  hasty  and 
reluctant  at  first ; how  they  had  gradually  been  permitted  to  lengthen 
as  he  lingered;  how  they  had  subsequently  swelled  to  hours,  as  he 
learned  from  her  her  story,  and  that  of  her  father,  who  had  been  born  a 
nobleman,  and  created  an  admiral ; but  who,  from  reverse  of  fortune, 
and  a haughty  spirit  that  could  neither  seek  favor  unjustly  withheld, 
stoop  to  beseech  where  he  ought  to  have  commanded,  nor  consent  to 
wear  a title  when  he  had  lost  the  means  that  should  enable  him  to  sup- 
port it  with  dignity,  had  proudly  retired  to  a life  of  indigence  and  ob- 
scurity with  his  only  daughter  Erminia.  The  young  man  learned  from 
her,  that  soon  after  the  reverse  of  fortune,  two  far  worse  blows  had  be- 
fallen them,  in  her  father’s  blindness,  and  in  the  news  which  reached  of 
the  death  of  their  beloved  Gratiano,  her  brother ; a youth  full  of  pro- 
mise, who  had  fallen  in  his  first  naval  engagement.  From  all  that  Er- 
minia said,  the  young  man  gathered  that  her  father  had  lost  nothing  of 
his  proud  spirit  with  his  altered  fortunes ; that  the  old  nobleman’s  pa- 
trician blood  mantled  high  as  ever ; that  the  old  naval  officer’s  sense  of 
dignity  abated  no  jot  of  its  keenness  and  consciousness  ; that  the  penni- 
less blind  man,  who  depended  on  his  daughter’s  needlework  for  the 
bread  he  ate,  entertained  a no  less  exalted  notion  of  what  was  due  to 
his  own  honor  and  to  hers,  than  he  had  done  when  in  the  plenitude  of 
his  wealth,  and  surrounded  by  every  distinction  of  birth  and  renown. 

Hence  it  came,  that  the  young  man  had  truly  guessed  how  fruitless 
it  would  be  to  endeavour  to  gain  this  proud,  though  indigent  father’s 
sanction  to  the  private  marriage  into  which  he  hoped  to  persuade  the 
daughter.  He  felt  that  it  was  not  more  vain  to  attempt  obtaining  his 
own  father’s  consent  to  a match  with  a girl  of  Erminia’s  lowly  fortunes, 
than  it  would  be  to  induce  hers  to  listen  to  anything  like  a proposal  for 
a union  that  was  to  remain  unavowed ; he  therefore  dedicated  all  his 
efforts  to  prevail  upon  the  maiden  herself  to  bestow  her  hand  upon  him 
in  secret,  and  to  preserve  the  knowledge  that  she  had  done  so,  from 
every  one,  including  even  her  father.  He  remembered  how  many 
reiterated  pleadings,  evening  after  evening  (always  choosing  the  twilight 
hours  for  stealing  thither,  when  the  old  blind  man  had  retired  to  rest, 


THE  MAGNIJTCO’S  CHILD. 


299 


that  he  might  have  uninterrupted  communion  with  his  mistress),  it  had 
cost  him,  ere  he  could  induce  her  to  listen  to  his  scheme,  even  after  he 
had  obtained  from  her  the  confession  that  her  love  equalled  his  own. 
He  remembered  how  firmly  she  had  withstood  his  most  persuasive  argu- 
ments, his  most  urgent  appeals.  He  remembered  how  her  refusals  had 
waxed  fainter  and  fainter,  as  her  conviction  grew  of  the  constancy  as 
well  as  fervour  of  his  attachment.  He  remembered  how  her  steadiness 
had  been  unable  to  remain  proof  against  the  sight  of  his  pale  face  after 
a fit  of  illness  that  had  seized  him,  and  detained  him  from  their  usual 
meetings  for  more  than  a week’s  interval.  He  remembered  how  he  had, 
with  the  pardonable  craft  of  love,  laid  his  malady  solely  to  the  amount 
of  protracted  anxiety,  and  of  the  suspense  in  which  his  affections  were 
held,  so  long  as  she  refused  to  become  his  wife.  He  remembered  well 
the  blushing  consent  that  ensued ; the  stealthy  repairing  to  church ; 
the  privily-pronounced  vows,  before  a priest  won  to  concealment ; the 
stolen  joys  of  subsequent  meetings, — enhanced  to  the  young  man’s 
sense  of  delight  by  their  difficulty,  their  romance,  their  mystery : for  his 
father  was  jealous  of  his  paternal  controul,  and  interfered  unremittingly 
in  the  disposal  of  his  son’s  time. 

And  still  as  the  gondola  glided  onwards,  the  young  man’s  thoughts 
recurred  to  each  happy  recollection  associated  with  his  married  love. 
He  saw  her  still,  as  she  looked,  that  blissful  hour,  when,  whispering  the 
blushing  avowal  that  he  had  truly  surmised  the  cause  of  her  altered 
mien,  he  learned  his  prospect  of  becoming  a father.  He  saw  the  smile 
with  which  she  raised  her  head  from  his  bosom,  and  told  him  playfully 
she  had  never  thought  to  contemplate  her  father’s  want  of  sight  as 
aught  but  an  affliction ; but  now  she  was  tempted  to  regard  it  as  fortu- 
nate for  himself,  inasmuch  as  it  prevented  his  discerning  a change  in  his 
child,  which  might  have  inspired  painful  doubts  of  her  honor  and  his 
own,  ere  the  time  should  arrive  when  all  would  be  cleared  by  the  avowal 
of  her  marriage.  The  young  man’s  heart  leaped  as  he  remembered  that 
now  this  time  had  arrived,  and  that  the  avowal  would  take  place  before 
the  birth  of  her  child  should  impugn  Erminia’s  fair  fame  either  with 
her  father  or  with  any  one  else.  He  thought  of  the  joy  this  would  be  to 


300 


DESDEMONA  J 


her  ; and  he  urged  the  speed  of  his  boatman,  that  the  sooner  might  be 
imparted  those  tidings  which  were  to  make  her  and  all  she  loved  so  happy. 

But  the  gondola  had  been  gliding  on  and  on,  all  the  time  of  his 
reverie  ; and  it  had  now  nearly  reached  the  distant  canal,  on  the  banks 
of  which,  Erminia  and  her  father  dwelt.  Suddenly,  the  young  man 
bade  the  gondolier  pause,  and  allow  the  vessel  to  float  softly  up  the 
narrow  inlet  towards  the  house.  One  more  stealthy  proceeding  on  the 
spot  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so  many,  ere  the  young  man  exchanged 
for  ever  mystery  for  display,  secrecy  for  courted  observation,  privacy  for 
a worldly  life  of  show,  and  riches,  and  high  station.  He  determined 
once  again  to  steal  quietly  to  the  lowly  dwelling,  as  he  had  so  often  done 
before,  and  indulge  himself  by  seeing  his  wife  before  she  was  aware  of 
his  approach.  There  was  a nook  near,  from  whence  he  could  clearly 
distinguish  her,  as  she  sat  within  her  chamber,  through  the  embowered 
window  already  mentioned.  He  had  frequently  taken  pleasure  in  watch- 
ing her  thus,  himself  unseen,  that  he  might  mark  her  placid  look,  as 
she  sat,  half  hidden  among  the  green  leaves,  at  work,  unconscious  of 
his  vicinity  ; and  contrast  it  with  the  glow  that  lighted  up  her  face  when 
he  entered  her  presence,  and  she  beheld  him.  He  could  not  resist  the 
impulse  which  bade  him  lurk  there  now ; but  he  had  no  sooner  raised 
his  eyes  to  the  trellised  window,  than  a sight  met  them,  which  blasted 
them  as  if  by  a stroke  of  lightning. 

Could  it  be?  Was  it  indeed  his  own  Erminia,  his  wife — his  chaste 
treasure — his  modest  beauty — she  whom  he  believed  to  be  spotless  as 
unsunned  snow — could  it  be  she,  whom  he  now  saw  enfolded  in  a 
stranger’s  arms,  clasped  to  his  bosom,  with  caresses  which  she  returned 
with  no  less  warmth  than  they  were  bestowed?  Yet  again  he  saw  those 
hateful  embraces.  Still  she  clung  round  the  man’s  neck,  and  pressed 
her  lips  passionately  to  his  ; while  still  he  rained  kisses  on  her  eyes,  her 
cheeks,  her  throat. 

The  young  husband,  with  one  bound,  made  his  way  to  the  prow  of 
the  gondola,  seized  the  boathook  from  his  attendant’s  hand,  plunged  it 
into  the  water,  with  a single  stroke  pushed  the  vessel  to  the  landing- 
place,  and  sprang  ashore. 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


301 


He  darted  up  the  narrow  staircase,  and  burst  into  the  chamber. 
With  one  torrent  of  incoherent  reproach  and  grief  he  relieved  his  full 
heart ; and,  scarcely  heeding  that  his  abrupt  appearance  and  vehement 
words  so  overwhelmed  his  wife  with  terror,  that  she  stood  speechless, 
gazing  at  him,  unable  to  articulate  one  word,  he  flung  out  of  the  room 
again  as  suddenly  as  he  had  entered,  rushed  down  stairs,  leaped  into  his 
boat,  and  signed  to  the' gondolier  to  speed  away. 

The  instant  her  husband  disappeared,  Erminia  dropped  to  the  floor 
in  a swoon.  The  stranger  hung  over  her : — a Sister,  dear  sister  !”  he 
exclaimed  ; a is  this  to  be  our  meeting  after  all  ? Am  I miraculously 
preserved  from  death,  only  to  return  and  behold  thee  die  at  my  feet,— 
before  my  very  eyes  ? Sister,  sweet  Erminia  ! look  up  ! Speak  ! Look 
up  ! He  is  gone ! Do  not  shudder  thus.  Speak,  dear  Erminia.” 

Her  brother  raised  her  from  the  floor,  and  tenderly  supporting  her 
as  he  knelt,  endeavoured  to  restore  her  to  animation  ; but  she  no  sooner 
gave  tokens  of  coming  to  herself,  than  the  image  of  her  husband  in  his 
transport  of  grief  and  wrath  seemed  to  strike  her  back  into  senselessness, 
and  she  was  still  lying  thus,  half  prostrate,  her  head  supported  against 
her  brother  Gratiano’s  bosom,  an  occasional  convulsive  shudder  alone 
giving  token  that  she  lived,  when  the  old  blind  man,  her  father,  appeared 
at  the  door  of  the  room. 

The  sound  of  his  child’s  fall,  when  she  swooned,  had  roused  him  as 
he  sat  below ; he  had  groped  his  way  slowly  up  the  stairs,  and  now  stood 
there  calling  upon  her  name,  who  lay  unconscious  of  his  presence. 

“ Erminia,  my  child,  where  art  thou  ? Why  dost  not  answer  1 Has 
aught  happened  ? Art  thou  ill  ?”  said  the  old  man. 

“ Softly  ; she  has  fainted  ; but  I trust  to  recover  her  soon  5”  whis- 
pered Gratiano. 

u Merciful  heaven  ! What  voice  is  that  V1  exclaimed  the  blind  man. 
u Can  the  dead  speak  ? Can  the  waves  give  me  back  my  son  ? My  boy  ! 
Gratiano  !” 

With  distress  the  youth  now  perceived,  that  his  intention  of  gradu- 
ally preparing  his  father  to  the  knowledge  that  he  was  still  alive,  had 
been  frustrated ; while  the  spasmodic  working  of  the  old  man’s  face, 


302 


DESDEMONA  ! 


as  he  eagerly  turned  his  sightless  eyes,  and  stretched  his  trembling 
hands  towards  the  voice,  showed  the  powerful  effect  his  so  suddenly 
coming  to  this  knowledge  had  upon  him,  and  how  necessary  it  was  to 
devise  some  means  of  soothing  his  agitation. 

G-ratiano  gently  rested  the  still-shuddering  frame  of  his  sister  in  a 
reclining  position,  speaking  a few  words  the  while,  in  as  composed  a 
voice  as  he  could  command,  to  his  father ; but  the  mere  tone  seemed  to 
renew  all  the  blind  man’s  excitement,  and  it  was  not  until  his  son  had 
come  towards  him,  had  suffered  him  to  strain  him  in  his  arms,  to  feel 
his  face,  his  hands,  and  again  to  embrace  him  closely,  that  the  father 
seemed  capable  of  attaining  conviction  of  the  reality  of  his  son’s  restora- 
tion to  life  and  to  him. 

“ But  where  is  Erminia  ? She  should  know  of  her  brother’s  return. 
"Where  is  my  child,  my  Erminia  1 Did  not  some  one  say  she  had  been 
ill  ? That  she  had  fainted  ? But  where  is  she  ? Lead  me  to  her  !” 
The  old  man  spoke  in  great  perturbation  ; his  hands  shaking,  his  lips 
quivering,  his  face  twitching  violently. 

u Dear  sir,  be  calm  ; for  her  sake,  be  calm  ; she  is  very  ill — she  is 
still  in  a swoon  ; when  she  comes  to  herself,  let  her  not  find  you  thus.” 

Gratiano,  thinking  that  possibly  the  best  means  of  allaying  the  blind 
man’s  wild  alarm,  would  be  to  give  him  a tangible  object  of  anxiety, 
and  trusting  also  that  its  being  familiar  to  its  touch  would  make  it  a 
source  of  comfort,  led  his  father  gently  to  the  spot  where  Erminia  lay, 
and  by  her  side  they  both  knelt  down,  the  old  man  bending  over  her, 
touching  her  pale  face  and  hands  softly,  and  murmuring  words  of  won- 
der and  lament,  while  her  brother  renewed  his  efforts  to  restore  her  to 
consciousness. 

But  nature  herself  aided  him  ; in  the  imperious  demand  to  bestow 
life,  the  young  girl  was  recalled  from  her  death-like  trance.  Pang  suc- 
ceeded pang ; each  throe  was  followed  by  another  ; while  the  effort  to 
stifle  her  groans  could  not  prevent  their  reaching  the  ear  of  her  old 
blind  father,  who  wrung  his  hands,  wept  piteously,  vainly  seeking  to 
help  his  daughter  in  her  extremity,  now  wondering  its  cause,  now  de- 
ploring her  plight. 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


303 


Gratiano,  who  had  run  to  obtain  assistance,  now  returned  with  one 
or  two  women,  neighbours,  who  hastened  in  with  him,  and  proceeded  to 
minister  to  the  sufferer,  and  aid  her  in  her  hour  of  peril. 

An  hour  of  peril  that  hour  of  travail  was  ; a painful  hour,  a sad 
hour,  an  hour  never  to  be  forgotten  by  the  youth  ; for,  as  he  received 
the  new-born  babe  in  his  arms,  and  drew  near  to  the  spot  where  his 
father  sat,  in  the  hope  that  this  new  call  upon  his  tenderness  might 
serve  to  rouse  the  old  man  from  his  grief,  he  perceived  with  dismay 
that  he  was  rigid  and  motionless  ; that  he  had  expired  in  the  very 
moment  which  had  just  given  birth  to  his  grandchild. 

In  the  distress,  the  anxiety,  the  eagerness,  the  perplexity  of  the 
scene,  the  old  blind  man  had  tottered  disregarded,  to  a corner  of  the 
room,  where  he  had  come  to  the  terrible  half-knowledge  of  his  daughter’s 
secret ; and  so,  smitten  to  the  heart  with  the  thought  of  shame,  dis- 
honour, disgrace,  he  had  clasped,  his  hands,  bowed  his  head,  yielded  to 
the  stroke,  and  died  as  he  sat. 

With  the  unnatural  calmness  that  such  extremes  of  distressful 
chance  sometimes  produce,  Gratiano  replaced  the  baby  in  the  woman’s 
arms ; and  then  raising  in  his  own  his  father’s  dead  body,  he  bore  it  re- 
verently and  quietly  from  the  room,  lest  his  sister  should  come  to  the 
knowledge  of  this  fresh  calamity. 

But  she  was  happily  out  of  reach  of  the  consciousness  of  that,  or  any 
other  misery.  She  had  sunk  exhausted,  into  a kind  of  stupor,  which 
held  her  for  many  hours. 

It  was  not  until  the  first  grey  dawn,  on  the  following  morning,  that 
she  awoke  to  a perfect  consciousness  of  her  condition.  Her  brother, 
Gratiano,  who  sat  watching  by  her  bed-side,  took  her  hand,  spoke  sooth- 
ingly to  her,  and  was  relieved  to  find  how  composed  her  manner  now 
was.  Her  voice  was  calm,  as  she  replied  to  his  fond  enquiries ; her  face 
was  serene  as  she  spoke  ; and  there  came  a radiant  smile  over  it,  as  a 
little  cry  reached  her  ear. 

u Hark  ! it  is  mine — it  is  my  child  !”  And  the  young  mother  looked 
fondly  andffully  happy,  as  they  brought  the  babe,  and  laid  it  to  her  bosom. 

“ Dear  brother  ! Dear  Gratiano  ! How  good,  how  tender  you  are  to 


304 


DESDEMONA  .* 


your  Erminia she  said.  “ To  have  you  thus  and  now  returned  in  life, 
is  doubly  and  trebly  a boon.  You  will  restore  your  sister  to  haj)piness, 
as  you  have  already  by  your  care  redeemed  her  from  death.  You  will 
go  to  him — you  will  let  him  know  how — I see  it  all  now — I understand 
his  error — you  will  explain  to  him,  you  will  tell  him ; will  you  not,  my 
brother?” 

“I?  Whom  do  you  speak  of?  To  whom  should  I go?”  faltered 
Gratiano. 

“ To  my  husband — to  Brabantio.  I understand  his  mistake — I 
writhe  to  think  of  his  agony  in  believing  his  Erminia  false,  0 hasten? 
dear  Gratiano,  to  relieve  his  suffering — to  let  him  know  the  iruth.” 

“ His  agony?  his  suffering?”  said  her  brother;  “what  agony  did  he 
not  inflict  ?”  And  he  beheld  again  his  swooning  sister,  his  sorrowing 
blind  father,  the  distressful  travail,  the  new-born  infant,  and  the  old  man 
struck  with  death. 

“ He  was  deceived — he  could  not  guess  the  truth — he  knew  not  you 
were  my  brother — he  thought  Gratiano  dead,  as  we  all  believed  ;”  said 
she  eagerly.  “But  how  did  my  father  bear  the  blest  news  of  your 
being  still  in  life  ? I remember,  we  agreed,  I was  to  break  it  to  him 
gently,  lest  the  sudden  bliss  should  be  too  much  for  the  dear  old  man. 
And  see,  he  will  have  another  happiness,  in  his  Erminia’s  child  ; for  we 
will  have  no  reserves  now,  and  I will  obtain  my  Brabantio’s  leave  to  tell 
my  father  all. 

Thus  the  young  mother  prattled  on,  full  of  the  hope  which  sprang 
from  her  own  new  happiness  in  the  child  that  was  born  to  her ; while 
she  bent  over  it  hoveringly,  caressingly,  as  it  lay  softly  breathing  beside 
her. 

“ Is  it  not  beautiful,  dear  Gratiano  ? What  will  be  Brabantio's  joy 
to  behold  it ! How  will  my  dear  old  father  love  to  press  it  in  his  arms, 
— to  feel  its  soft  cheeks  and  hands ! I long  to  see  my  father — you  have 
not  yet  told  me  how  he  bore  your  tidings,  Gratiano.  How  is  he  ? 
Where  is  he?” 

“ I have  laid  him  on  his  bed — he  is  quiet  now — best  let  him  rest, 
dear  sister ; we  all  have  need  of  rest ;”  said  Gratiano  in  a low  voice. 


THE  MAGNIFIES  CHILD. 


305 


u True,  I am  selfish  in  my  own  content ; I forget  that  you  have  been 
watching,  my  brother.  Take  some  sleep ; and  when  the  sun  is  high,  and 
you  are  well  rested,  you  will  go  and  carry  comfort  to  Brabantio — you 
will  take  joy  to  my  husband’s  heart ; will  you  not,  Gratiano  ?” 

“ Sleep  you,  my  sister he  whispered,  as  he  leant  down,  and  kissed 
her  cheek. 

“ I cannot  sleep  without  your  promise,  dear  Gratiano  !”  smiled  she. 
f£  Give  it  me.” 

He  gave  her  the  promise,  and  soon  had  his  reward  in  seeing  her  sink 
into  a slumber,  peaceful,  sweet,  happy.  He  felt  that  he  needed  some 
such  reward ; for  the  promise  he  had  given,  was  most  reluctant. 

“ And  yet,”  he  thought,  u who  has  she  but  her  brother  to  tee  her 
righted,  to  see  her  restored  in  her  husband’s  esteem,  avowedly  an  honor- 
able and  honored  wife.  It  must  be  done  ; and  yet  to  seek  that  ungovern- 
ed madman,  to  ask  his  quiet  hearing  while  I speak, — -his  hearing,  whose 
imperious  irrationality  deigned  not  even  to  await  an  explanation  of  what 
he  beheld — voluntarily  to  meet  again  him,  whose  rashness  periled  my 
sister’s  life,  his  own  child’s  existence,  and  actually, — if  not  directly, — 
caused  my  father’s  death,  is  a hateful  task.  But  it  is  for  her.  Let  me 
school  myself  to  its  patient  fulfilment.” 

When  Erminia  next  awoke,  it  was  broad  day ; yet  she  still  found  her 
brother  keeping  faithful  watch  beside  her. 

She  thanked  him  for  his  fond  care ; but  her  wistful  eyes,  fixed  on  his, 
seemed  to  remind  him  of  his  promise, — seemed  still  to  demand  one  act  of 
devotion  in  her  behalf  which  should  outweigh  in  her  estimation  all  that  he 
had  yet  done ; which  should  be  of  more  worth  to  her  than  any  personal 
tendance,  however  fond,  and  without  which,  all  his  ministry  towards  her- 
self would  prove  comparatively  valueless, — useless. 

He  saw  that  her  solicitude  on  this  point  would  render  vain  any  other 
means  he  might  take  to  keep  her  as  free  from  agitation  of  mind  and  body 
as  her  state  required ; he  saw  too,  that  her  anxiety  on  this  subject,  her 
longing  to  have  her  husband’s  misapprehension  rectified,  her  desire  to  be 
reconciled  to  him,  to  behold  him,  absorbed  all  other  considerations,  even 
to  the  exclusion  of  farther  thought  respecting  her  father ; yet  he  dread- 


306 


DESDEMONA  J 


ed  that  at  any  moment  the  idea  might  recur  to  her,  and  then,  should  he 
not  be  at  hand  to  prepare  her  gently  for  the  old  man’s  sudden  death,  she 
might  learn  it  with  fatal  abruptness  from  some  one  less  cautious  than 
himself.  He  resolved  therefore,  at  all  events,  not  to  set  out  on  his  quest  of 
Brabantio,  until  he  should  have  previously  possessed  her  with  the  know- 
ledge of  their  loss. 

Carefully,  gradually,  by  gentle  degrees,  he  led  her  to  the  fact.  He 
awakened  alarm ; he  allowed  her  to  surmise  that  all  was  not  well, — that 
the  news  of  his  son’s  unexpected  redemption  from  death  had  dangerously 
affected  their  father, — that  he  had  been  seriously  indisposed, — that  he 
was  not  better — that  he  was  worse — that  he  was  deal. 

Amidst  the  grief  which  this  intelligence  occasioned  his  sister,  Gratiano 
rejoiced  to  perceive  that  no  suspicion  reached  her  of  the  share  which  her 
own  condition  had  had  in  dealing  the  old  man  his  death-blow.  His  son’s 
unhoped-for  reappearance  in  health  and  life  thus  suddenly,  seemed  to 
afford  her  sufficient  ground  to  account  for  their  father’s  fatal  seizure ; 
and  her  brother  sedulously  avoided  any  mention  that  could  undeceive 
her. 

Soon  however,  her  first  concern  resumed  its  dominion  ; and  Gratiano 
could  perceive  that  again  the  thought  of  the  husband  surmounted  that 
of  the  father  ; her  anxiety  exceeded  her  grief;  still,  though  he  could  not 
but  be  content  that  aught  should  subdue  the  poignancy  of  her  sorrow, 
yet  with  the  inconsistency  of  affection,  he  half  grudged  that  she  should 
owe  the  mitigation  of  her  distress  to  such  a source ; it  seemed  like  de- 
riving comfort  from  the  thought  of  him  whose  intemperate  fury  had  been 
the  origin  of  all  their  misery. 

But  there  was  no  resisting  those  pleading  eyes,  that  ever  meekly  yet 
earnestly  sought  his,  beseeching  him  to  commiserate  a wife’s  impatience 
to  be  restored  in  grace,  esteem,  and  honor,  to  a husband’s  loving  arms. 

Could  he  withhold  so  dear  a boon  from  one  so  dear  to  himself,  when 
it  was  in  his  own  power  to  compass  her  desire,  and  bestow  what  would 
make  her  so  supremely  happy  ? At  whatever  cost  to  his  own  feelings, 
it  should  be  done ; he  would  seek  this  rash  husband  without  delay,  and 
carry  him  joy  and  comfort,  that  hers  might  be  secured. 


THE  MAGNIFIES  CHILD. 


307 


With  a few  words  to  his  sister,  telling  her  his  errand,  and  bidding 
her  be  of  good  cheer  until  his  return,  Gratiano  left  her ; hurried  to  the 
nearest  landing  where  gondolas  were  plying,  hired  one,  leaped  into  it, 
and  bade  the  boatman  convey  him  to  Signor  Brabantio’s  palace  on  the 
grand  canal.  As  the  vessel  cut  through  the  water,  the  gondolier,  with 
the  loquacity  of  his  calling,  descanted  upon  the  wealth,  rank,  and  sump- 
tuous style  of  the  young  magnifico,  who  had  recently  come  into  the 
possession  of  all  the  family  dignities  and  possessions,  by  the  recent  death 
of  his  father. 

“ He  does  not  want  for  pride,  though,  any  more  than  his  father  before 
him,  they  say  said  the  man  ; “ or  for  a spice  of  arrogance  to  boot,  and 
a haughty  disdain  of  those  beneath  him,  to  the  back  of  that.  But  thus 
it  is ; the  tyrannous  father  makes  the  slavish  son,  so  long  as  the  old  one 
lives,  only  that  he  may  be  the  tyrant  in  his  turn  ever  after.” 

As  the  humble  hired  gondola  turned  into  the  grand  canal,  and  neared 
the  dwelling  of  Brabantio,  Grratiano  found  the  palace  steps  surrounded 
by  a rich  train  of  boats  filled  with  officers  of  different  grades,  followers, 
attendants,  and  all  the  retinue  of  a Venetian  nobleman  drawn  up  to 
await  his  coming  forth. 

Presently  the  magnifico  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  hall  of  entrance, 
and  as  he  paused  for  an  instant  on  the  marble  esplanade  which  headed 
the  flight  of  steps  leading  down  to  the  water,  that  he  might  give  some 
parting  orders  to  a domestic,  Gratiano  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd 
of  attending  gondoliers  and  stepped  upon  the  lowest  stair  of  the  step. 

His  approaching  figure  caught  the  eye  of  Brabantio,  who  no  sooner 
glanced  towards  him,  than  the  blood  which  flew  up  into  both  the  young 
men’s  faces,  showed  their  mutual  recognition. 

But  as  the  magnifico,  endeavouring  to  master  his  emotion,  began  to 
descend  the  marble  flight,  with  as  lofty  a step  as  he  could  assume, 
Gratiano  advanced,  and  showed  plainly  that  he  was  about  to  address 
him;  which  Brabantio  perceiving,  stopped  short,  and  hastily  laid  his 
hand  on  his  dagger. 

“ Beware,  my  lord,  of  violence,  which  you  will  repent  hereafter,  more 
than  any  one exclaimed  Gratiano. 


308 


BESDEMONA  ] 


“ Tlioti  art  unworthy  my  weapon,  fellow;”  said  the  magnifico;  “ stand 
from  my  path,  or  one  of  my  knaves  shall  rid  me  of  thy  presence.” 

“ For  Erminia’s  sake,  I bear  thy  injurious  words,  rash  lord  ;”  said 
Gratiana;  “but  for  her  sake  also,  hear  me  in  return.” 

“ Dar’st  thou  name  her,  villain — and  to  me  ?”  said  Brabantio,  turn- 
ing as  white  with  rage,  as  he  had  before  flushed  scarlet  with  surprise. 

“ Hear  me,  my  lord ; give  me  five  minutes’  private  audience ;” 
Gratiano  said,  thinking  of  his  sister,  and  compelling  himself  to  patience. 

“Not  for  the  wealth  of  Venice  would  I hold  one  moment’s  parley 
with  thee retorted  Brabantio ; “ stand  back,  I say ! or  by  St.  Mark, 
I’ll  have  thee  forced  back  into  the  canal,  and  drowned  like  a dog  as 
thou  art.” 

“ Nay  then,  thou  shalt  hear  me  declare  aloud,  what,  in  pity  to  thy- 
self, I would  have  told  thee  less  publicly,  proud  lord ; learn  all  in  one 
word — I am  Erminia’s  brother.” 

“ Her  brother  ! He  is  dead  !”  exclaimed  Brabantio;  but  on  uttering 
his  last  sentence,  Gratiano  had  turned  on  his  heel,  and  was  retreating  to 
the  gondola  in  waiting  for  him,  when  the  faltering  words  “ I beseech  you, 
stay,  sir : in  pity  to  my  wonder,  let  me  know  this  strange  mystery 
reached  his  ear,  and  made  him  retrace  his  steps. 

The  magnifico  waved  the  bystanders  aside,  and  hastily  led  Gratiano 
into  the  palace  towards  his  own  private  room. 

Here  all  was  explained ; all  revealed ; and  with  so  little  of  reproach, 
save  what  the  bare  narrative  of  the  past  night’s  events  could  not  fail  of 
carrying  to  the  heart  of  Brabantio,  that  he  was  fain  to  confess  Gratiano’s 
generosity,  and  to  own  that  such  forbearance  inspired  even  greater 
compunction  than  the  bitterest  blame  could  have  called  forth. 

He  would  have  grasped  the  youth’s  hand,  as  he  besought  his  forgive- 
ness for  the  insult  he  had  offered,  for  the  injury  he  had  caused  ; but 
though  Gratiano  accorded  a frank  pardon  for  those  wrongs  which 
regarded  himself,  he  could  not  help  shrinking  from  clasping  palms  with 
a man  whose  ungoverned  temper  excited  his  contempt,  and  whose  preci- 
pitancy had  occasioned  irreparable  evil. 

*kut  in  Brabantio’s  eagerness  to  hasten  to  his  Erminia,  to  behold  his 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


309 


wife,  and  the  child  she  had  brought  him,  her  brother’s  reluctant  hand 
passed  unnoticed  ; and  he  thought  but  of  urging  that  they  should  lose 
no  time  in  returning  to  relieve  her  suspense. 

No  more  welcome  proposal  could  have  been  made;  and  Brabantio 
and  Gratiano  once  more  repaired  to  the  marble  landing,  stepped  into  the 
nobleman’s  gondola  together,  and  took  their  way  towards  the  humble 
dwelling  so  soon  to  be  no  longer  that  of  Erminia. 

The  very  first  hour  she  could  bear  removal,  Brabantio’s  impatience 
to  see  her  his  acknowledged  wife,  and  installed  in  the  rank  and  dignity 
which  belonged  to  her  of  right  through  him,  caused  her  to  be  conveyed 
with  their  infant  daughter  to  the  palace  on  the  grand  canal ; but  no  per- 
suasions of  his  sister  or  her  husband  could  induce  Gratiano  to  accompany 
them  thither.  He  retained  the  old  humble  dwelling  which  had  been  his 
father’s  and  Erminia’s  in  the  days  of  their  penury,  saying  he  had  a sort 
of  fancy  for  it  as  a quiet  bachelor  abode. 

But  he  did  not  long  occupy  it.  On  the  very  night  of  the  grand 
entertainment  which  was  given  by  Brabantio  in  honor  of  his  daughter, 
the  infant  Desdemona’s  baptism,  Gratiano  quitted  Venice.  Without 
explanation,  without  leave-taking,  he  disappeared ; and  for  many  years, 
was  neither  seen  nor  heard  of  there. 

Meantime,  the  joy  of  Erminia,  save  for  this  one  exception,  seemed 
complete.  Restored  to  her  husband’s  good  graces — the  brief  forfeiture  of 
which  appeared  only  to  enhance  the  delight  of  their  present  possession 
— happy  in  his  society,  living  with  him  in  honor  and  dignity,  sharing 
with  him  his  noble  name  and  high  position,  watching  with  him  the 
infant  perfections  of  their  child,  the  life  of  Erminia  was  now  as  uninter- 
ruptedly bright,  as  it  had  formerly  been  chequered,  anxious,  and  sad. 
Brabantio  was  proud  of  her ; proud  of  her  beauty,  which  reflected  credit 
on  his  choice,  and  offered  sufficient  warrant  for  the  imprudence  of  a 
youthful  and  private  marriage ; proud  of  her  grace,  her  benign  aspect, 
her  air  of  refinement,  her  gentle  birth  and  breeding,  which  rather  shed 
additional  lustre  on  the  rank  to  which  he  had  raised  her,  than  received 
aught  from  its  bestowal  upon  herself ; proud  that  she  plainly  showed, 
what  was  indeed  the  truth,  that  her  marriage  had  only  replaced  her  in 


310 


DESDEMONA  ! 


that  station,  to  which  her  parentage  entitled  her,  though  from  which 
misfortune  had  for  a time  withdrawn  her ; proud  that  her  every  look 
and  gesture  bespoke  her  to  be  of  equal  nobility  with  himself. 

In  every  costly  gratification,  in  every  luxury  of  attendance,  of  dwell* 
ing,  of  attire,  of  ornament,  her  husband’s  desire  to  consult  her  taste  and 
pleasure  was  unbounded.  He  loved  to  see  her  profuse  in  expenditure, 
and  environed  by  every  thing  that  could  proclaim  his  wealth,  and  his 
wish  to  make  it  contribute  to  her  enjoyment.  He  rejoiced  in  displacing 
her  as  the  magnifico’s  bride,  as  the  lady  of  the  Venetian  nobleman,  as 
the  wife  of  the  senator,  the  grandee,  the  man  of  rank,  of  opulence,  of 
distinction.  He  liked  to  make  her  the  medium  of  exhibiting  his  magni- 
ficence, his  affluence,  his  power  and  importance  in  the  state.  He  chose 
that  the  splendour  of  the  lady  Erminia’s  household,  the  lady  Erminia’s 
retinue,  the  lady  Erminia’s  garments  and  jewels,  should  surpass  those 
of  any  other  lady  in  Venice,  because  the  lady  Erminia  was  the  spouse 
of  Signior  Brabantio. 

But  though  surrounded  by  all  these  evidences  of  a husband’s  proud 
affection  and  respect,  and  of  his  desire  that  she  should  appear  thus  their 
object  in  the  eyes  of  the  world ; yet  there  lurked  half  unconsciously  in 
Erminia’s  heart,  a feeling  that  she  would  have  been  contented  with  far 
less  glare  and  ostentation  in  her  lot.  She  was  by  nature  gentle  and 
modest ; contented  with  little,  while  eager  for  much ; careless  of  worldly 
possessions,  though  solicitous  to  possess  the  first  treasure  in  the  world ; 
indifferent  to  money  and  money’s  acquisitions,  covetous  of  happiness 
and  affection. 

Yet  though  her  modesty  would  have  led  her  to  prefer  less  parade 
with  more  of  domesticity  in  her  way  of  life ; still,  that  very  modesty 
prevented  her  wish  from  assuming  shape  and  substance,  since  it  would 
have  militated  against  what  was  so  evidently  her  husband’s  desire ; 
consequently  there  the  preference  remained,  lurking,  unavowed,  almost 
unsuspected,  even  by  herself,  while  she  continued  to  lead  the  kind 
of  existence  which  seemed  one  of  happiness,  since  it  was  such  to 
Brabantio. 

i As  long  as  he  appeared  pleased,  how  could  she  be  otherwise  ? And 


THE  MAGNIFICO’s  CHILD. 


311 


for  some  time,  nothing  occurred  to  mar  his  content,  or  disturb  his 
complacency.  Amid  a round  of  gaiety,  of  brilliant  entertainments,  of 
successive  festivities,  of  growing  emoluments  and  honors  in  the  state, 
the  magnifico’s  satisfaction  seemed  full  to  repletion  ; but  perhaps  it  was 
this  very  plentitude  which  led  to  satiety,  and  then  induced  waywardness, 
and  at  length  brought  on  recurring  fits  of  his  old  temper,  which  had 
once  produced  such  unhappy  results.  He  had  inherited  a naturally 
haughty  disposition  from  his  father ; his  position  fostered  pride  and 
wilfulness ; unthwarted  by  fortune,  idolized  by  his  wife,  he  could 
scarcely  fail  to  gain  fresh  conviction  of  his  importance  and  irresponsible 
power ; insensibly  he  became  more  and  more  capricious  and  domineer- 
ing ; he  indulged  his  arrogance ; he  allowed  himself  to  use  expressions 
of  disdain,  to  give  way  to  bursts  of  choler  upon  trivial  occasions ; and  in 
short  forgot  to  keep  that  strict  guard  upon  his  temper,  which  he  had 
once  promised  himself  he  would  maintain,  after  the  memorable  occasion 
when  his  impetuosity  had  nearly  poisoned  his  whole  existence,  and  that 
of  the  beings  most  dear  to  him. 

So  complete  was  th’e  infatuation  of  Erminia’s  fondness  for  her  hus- 
band, that  she  remained  unaware  of  this  growing  evil  in  his  humour ; it 
was  so  gradual  in  its  increase,  too ; it  so  imperceptibly  became  his  habit ; 
and  besides,  she  herself  never  being  its  object,  it  presented  itself  so 
much  less  palpably  than  it  might  otherwise  have  done  to  her  perception, 
that  she  was  still  unconscious  of  Brabantio’s  change  of  mood. 

She  never  dreamed  that  the  ingenuous  young  man  who  had  first  won 
her  heart  in  the  obscure  retreat  where  he  had  discovered  her,  content  to 
sue  for  her  love,  to  woo  her  humbly  and  perseveringly,  and  to  make  her 
his  wife  in  unostentatious  privacy  and  retirement, — who  had  consented 
to  visit  her  by  stealth,  and  abide  in  patience  the  release  from  a stern 
father’s  coercion,  had  in  fact  now  become  scarcely  less  imperious,  or  less 
of  a domestic  tyrant  than  that  father. 

But  though  unconscious  of  the  change  itself,  its  influence  acted 
upon  her.  She  did  not  trace  the  cause,  but  her  gentleness  merged  into 
timidity ; her  submission  into  passiveness  ; her  modest  doubt  into  self- 
mistrust ; her  eye,  which  had  formerly  sought  his  in  happy  confidence, 


312 


DESDEMONA  J 


acquired  an  anxious  expression ; the  smile  which  once  sat  on  her  lips, 
subsided  into  a sweet  but  pensive  seriousness ; without  losing  her  native 
serenity,  she  was  rarely  gay ; and  though  she  was  placidly  cheerful,  she 
never  now  felt  joyous.  That  hilarity  of  spirit,  that  buoyancy  of  heart, 
which  the  mere  sight  of  a beautiful  object,  or  the  hearing  of  a generous 
deed,  or  the  reading  of  a poetic  passage,  or  the  contemplation  of  Nature’s 
face,  will  inspire  at  a moment’s  bidding  within  the  breast  of  youth, 
guiltless  and  innocent,  were  never  again  to  be  Erminia’s ; the  capability 
of  such  pure  and  glad  emotion  had  fled,  but  she  knew  not  that  it  was 
her  husband’s  frown,  her  husband’s  contracted  lips,  her  husband’s 
harsher  tone  when  addressing  a dependant,  issuing  a command,  or 
reproving  an  error,  which  had  banished  her  girlish  lightness  of  heart. 

She  thought  rather, — if  a thought  of  the  kind  ever  crossed  her  fan- 
cy,— that  her  new  gravity  was  owing  to  her  new  duties  in  the  character 
of  wife  and  mother ; while  she  gazed  upon  her  husband,  and  pressed  her 
child  to  her  breast,  with  delighted  acknowledgment  that  she  welcomed 
the  cares  inseparable  from  such  duties,  as  still  dearer  than  her  lost 
gaiety. 

She  had  given  her  child,  the  little  Desdemona,  as  nurse,  a woman, 
whom  she  had  chosen  rather  for  her  good  qualities,  and  in  commiseration 
for  the  misfortunes  she  had  endured,  than  for  the  reasons  which  some- 
times influence  a lady  of  high  rank  in  the  choice  of  a nurse. 

This  poor  woman,  Marianna  Marini,  had  been  the  wife  of  an  indus- 
trious fisherman,  whose  dwelling  was  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  lowly 
one  which  had  formerly  sheltered  Erminia  and  her  father.  Marianna 
had,  in  fact,  been  one  of  those  who  afforded  neighbourly  succour  to  the 
lady,  in  the  hour  of  her  hasty  travail ; and  when  Marini’s  vessel  foun- 
dered at  sea,  and  he  himself  was  drowned,  Erminia  took  the  widow  and 
two  children  to  her  own  home,  appointing  Marianna  nurse  to  the  young 
Desdemona,  and  allowing  Barbara  and  Lancetto  to  run  about  the  house 
until  such  time  as  one  could  be  promoted  to  the  office  of  waiting-maid 
about  her  lady’s  person,  and  the  other  should  be  old  enough  to  fill  the 
post  of  page. 

It  happened,  that  just  about  the  time  Marianna  received  the  charge 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


313 


of  her  child  from  Erminia,  a nurse  had  been  recommended  by  some  lady 
of  high  rank,  the  wife  of  one  of  Brabantio’s  friends  ; but,  hesitating  not 
an  instant  between  the  grandly  recommended  person  and  the  one  from 
whom  she  had  once  received  signal  service,  and  who  was  now  in  want  of 
her  support,  the  lady  Erminia  dismissed  the  aristocratic  nurse,  and  re- 
tained the  fisherman’s  widow. 

This  was  done  of  her  own  accord,  and  without  a thought  that  her 
decision  could  by  possibility  displease  her  husband  ; but  when  Braban- 
tio  learned  that  the  attendant  proposed  by  the  lady  of  a brother  magni- 
fico  had  been  rejected  in  favor  of  a widow-woman  who  was  known  to  no 
one  excepting  to  his  wife  in  the  days  of  her  poverty,  he  loudly  expressed 
his  disapproval  of  what  had  been  done. 

He  did  not  tell  Erminia  that  the  sight  of  Mariaima  was  odious  *o 
him,  as  recalling  a period  of  their  existence  which  he  wished  could  be 
for  ever  blotted  from  his  memory ; but  he  said  that  he  did  not  choose 
risking  the  affront  which  might  be  taken  bj'  one  of  his  lady-friends, 
should  any  recommendation  of  hers  be  slighted.  He  therefore  desired 
that  the  fine  nurse  should  be  immediately  sent  for,  and  installed  as 
head-nurse  to  his  child. 

Erminia  yielded  to  her  lord’s  will  on  the  instant.  She  only  rejoiced 
that  while  he  had  commanded  the  recall  of  the  one  woman,  he  had  issued 
no  sentence  of  banishment  against  the  other ; and  she  determined  to 
avail  herself  of  this  tacit  permission  that  Marianna  might  remain,  feel- 
ing secure  that  her  attachment  towards  herself,  would  ensure  her  obey- 
ing without  a murmur  the  decree  that  limited  her  exile  to  the  nursery, 
though  it  withdrew  her  from  the  nominal  appointment. 

The  widow’s  submission  was  rewarded.  She  patiently  allowed  her 
rival  to  step  into  all  the  honors  of  chief  nurse  to  the  magnifico’s  little 
daughter ; and  while  Madame  Y eronica  bore  the  babe  on  all  state  occa- 
sions, paraded  it  before  the  guests,  and  carried  it  into  the  saloon  when 
its  father  desired  to  behold  it,  Marianna  was  content  to  perform  all  the 
services  of  washing,  dressing,  and  tending  the  little  creature  as  its  faith- 
ful under-nurse.  This  arrangement  suited  all  parties.  The  indolent 
madam  enjoyed  the  emolument  and  ostentation  of  official  charge ; Mari- 


314 


DESDEMONA I 


anna  secured  the  personal  care  of  one  whom  she  doubly  loved — for  its 
own  sake,  and  for  its  mother’s ; Brabantio  no  longer  beheld  bearing  his 
child  one  whom  he  held  in  disgust,  from  her  insignificance  of  degree, 
and  from  her  significance  of  association ; while  Brminia  was  content  to 
see  her  child  in  the  arms  of  a state-nurse  for  a few  moments  in  the  day, 
knowing  that  it  rested  the  remainder  of  its  time  either  in  her  own,  or 
in  those  of  one  who  loved  it  well-nigh  as  dearly  as  herself. 

And  tender  indeed  was  the  cherishing  of  this  humble  under-nurse. 
While  the  little  one’s  mother  was  led  constantly  abroad  by  her  desire  to 
comply  with  her  husband’s  love  of  grandeur  and  display,  the  part  of  a 
mother  was  fulfilled  by  Marianna.  The  baby  throve  upon  her  fostering: 
it  grew  agile  and  sprightly  upon  her  active  dandling,  and  tossing,  and 
ceaseless  carrying  up  and  down  an  open  corridor,  and  large  vaulted  hall 
which  lay  on  one  side  of  the  palace,  apart  from  the  grand  entrance.  It 
read  doting  indulgence  and  affection  in  the  fond  looks  of  Marianna  her- 
self— those  looks  which  a babe’s  eyes  first  seek,  as  its  earliest  hint  of  the 
exhaustless  treasures,  and  all-wondrous  attractive  beauty  of  love ; in- 
stinctively hailing  at  its  outset  in  life,  the  most  precious  boon  life  affords. 

It  learned  the  joys  of  mirth  and  laughter  and  childish  sport  from  the, 
antics  which  Barbara  and  Lancetto,  the  widow’s  children,  alternately 
played  for  its  amusement.  They  would  dance,  they  would  play  at  bo- 
peep,  they  would  jingle  keys,  chink  coin,  flash  bright  colours,  play  at  ball, 
or  shuttlecock  before  it,  and  invent  all  manner  of  devices  to  amuse  the 
eyes  and  ears  of  the  baby  Desdemona. 

Barbara,  one  of  the  lightest-hearted,  merriest,  most  frolicksome  sprites 
that  ever  flew  about  in  the  shape  of  a young  girl,  skipped  and  bounded, 
for  ever  near ; singing  blithesome  songs,  and  scraps  of  dance-tunes,  and 
odds  and.  ends  of  mariners’  ditties,  and  gay  ballad  rhymes.  Lancetto, 
the  boy,  was  more  quiet  in  the  entertainment  he  was  able  to  afford  the 
child ; for  when  himself  a mere  child,  an  accident  had  destroyed  his  sense 
of  hearing,  and  he  had  ever  since  become  a shy  shrinking  lad,  creeping 
about  almost  as  silently  as  though  he  had  been  dumb  as  well  as  deaf. 

Yet  he  spared  no  pains  to  entertain  the  little  creature  to  the  utmost 
of  his  ability ; which  was  not  so  limited  as  might  have  been  supposed, 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


315 


from  his  defective  sense.  His  quiet  methods  of  engaging  the  child’s  at- 
tention, and  amusing  her  fancy,  had  some  magic  of  their  own  which  won 
her  liking  beyond  all  others ; and  while  the  deaf  boy  stood  beside  his 
mother’s  knee,  and  went  through  his  store  of  tricks  to  divert  the  infant 
on  her  lap,  the  joyous  Growings,  and  elastic  springings  of  the  young  baby 
sufficiently  testified  baby’s  delight. 

While  the  abrupt  play  and  ringing  voice  of  Barbara  would  sometimes 
make  the  child  (who  was  sensitive  and  impressible  to  a remarkable  de- 
gree) start,  or  blink,  or  laugh  almost  convulsively,  with  the  sudden  ap- 
peal ; the  gentle  contrivances  of  the  deaf  boy  for  her  amusement  would 
never  fail  to  charm  her  into  pleased  attention. 

It  was  somewhat  singular  to  observe,  how  intensely  the  delight  of  the 
child  delighted  the  boy ; it  almost  served  to  render  him  his  k'St  sense, 
and  to  endue  with  a strange  acuteness  what  had  been  so  blunted. 

For  when  the  babe  crowed,  his  keen  watching  of  the  sparkling  eyes, 
the  smiling  lip,  the  strained  hands  and  springing  form,  conveyed  so  true 
an  impression  to  him  of  her  joy,  that  with  it  came,  as  it  were,  some  faint 
echo  of  that  sound — all  slight,  gentle,  and  minute  as  it  was.  But  there 
were  one  or  two  sounds,  besides  this,  that  did  reach  Lancetto’s  hearing. 
His  mother’s  voice,  his  sister’s  singing,  certainly  possessed  significance 
for  him.  He  unquestionably  knew  when  the  one  spoke  to  him,  or  when 
the  other  carolled  her  gay  airs.  He  would  answer  Marianna  when 
she  addressed  him  ; and  check  himself  in  speaking,  if  Barbara  began 
to  sing.  It  might  be  that  some  expression  of  her  face,  some  look,  some 
gesture  betrayed  to  him  by  association  what  was  going  on  ; but  it  seemed 
also  as  if  there  were  some  few  sounds,  clear,  distinct,  low-toned,  and 
low-pitched  in  key,  which  could  reach  the  sense  that  was  irresponsive  of 
all  others. 

As  the  little  Desdemona  grew  older,  when  jingled  keys  a$d  other 
baby  tricks  lost  their  fascination,  Lancetto  would  persuade  his  mother 
to  let  him  take  her  and  her  young  charge  abroad  upon  the  waters  of  the 
lagunes,  in  a gondola ; which  he,  as  a mariner’s  son,  had  early  learned 
to  manage  with  skill. 

There  was  a private  landing,  on  a by-canal  that  ran  at  the  back  of 


316 


DESDEMONA  J 


the  palace,  leading  to  the  water  from  the  corridor  already  mentioned ; 
here  the  under-nurse  and  her  charge  could  embark,  avoiding  the  grand 
entrance  with  the  state  gondolas  and  liveried  gondoliers,  in  attendance 
there ; and  thus,  under  sanction  of  the  lady  Erminia’s  permission,  the 
young  Desdemona  enjoyed  many  a pleasant  excursion  upon  the  placid 
waters,  amid  the  cool  breezes  of  evening,  accompanied  by  the  faithful 
Marianna,  sung  to  by  Barbara,  and  rowed — if  rowing,  the  propelling  of 
a gondola  may  be  called — by  Lancetto. 

But  one  unfortunate  evening,  these  unpretending  progresses  were 
put  a stop  to,  by  Brabantio’s  happening  to  meet  the  simple  craft,  thus 
freighted  ; he  himself  being  in  company  with  a gay  party  of  signiors 
and  ladies  of  his  own  rank.  Mortified  to  find  his  only  daughter  thus 
unostentatiously  attended,  he  signified  his  high  displeasure  that  such 
should  be  the  case ; and  when  he  found  that  this  formed  her  usual 
equipage,  and  that  she  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  her  airings  with  no 
lordlier  style,  he  immediately  appointed  what  he  deemed  a retinue  better 
* befitting  her  rank,  desiring  that  in  future  she  should  occupy  a gondola 
emblazoned  with  the  arms  of  their  noble  house,  and  guided  by  six  gon- 
doliers in  rich  liveries,  whenever  it  was  thought  fit  for  her  to  go  forth 
and  take  the  air. 

As  usual,  this  mandate  of  Signior  Brabantio’s  was  obeyed  to  the 
letter ; but  to  the  letter  only.  In  the  spirit,  it  was  soon  broken  through. 
Like  all  households  where  will  is  the  mere  dictator, — where  despotism 
reigns, — where  orders,  rational  or  irrational  in  their  results,  are  issued, 
without  appeal  from  their  fiat, — obedience  was  professed,  while  subter- 
fuges neutralized  its  effect ; it  was  ostensibly  observed,  secretly  contra- 
vened ; outwardly  acted,  quietly  obstructed  in  the  working. 

The  lady  Erminia,  long  accustomed  to  comply  implicitly  with  her 
husband’s  commands,  had  learned,  as  tacitly,  to  evade  their  consequences, 
where  they  happened,  which  they  frequently  did,  to  prove  inconvenient, 
and  when  she  could  do  so  without  open  opposition.  Instead  of  the 
honest  remonstrance,  the  modest  yet  plain  representation, — which  surely 
beseem  a wife,  when  reasoning  a point  with  a husband,  whose  indulgence 
and  justice  equal  his  right  of  rule,  and  who  will  grant  patient  hearing 


THE  MAGNIFIES  CHILD. 


317 


to  one  whose  interest  in  the  ultimate  good  established  should  be  no  less 
than  his  own, — there  was  in  the  lady  Erminia’s  conduct  a subserviency, 
a temporizing,  which  will  too  often  take  the  place  of  candour  in  a timid 
woman.  When  such  a woman  is  treated  authoritatively,  without  the 
rational  confidence  which  should  give  weight  to  authority,  and  which  is 
needed  by  a timid  nature  to  encourage  it  in  a return  of  confidence,  and 
in  the  sincerity  it  would  fain  preserve,  she  is  apt  to  become  a moral 
coward,  an  equivocator — well,  if  not  a deceiver. 

In  the  present  instance,  Erminia  acted  as  her  whole  course  of  mar- 
ried life  had  taught  her  to  act.  Instead  of  representing  to  her  husband 
that  their  little  daughter  had  become  much  attached  to  her  nurse  ; that  she 
liked  being  with  none  so  well  as  with  her  children,  who  had  Deen  accus- 
tomed play-mates  from  babyhood  ; that  if  she  were  to  take  excursions 
upon  the  water,  in  company  only  with  Madame  Yeronica,  the  head- 
nurse, — whom  the  combined  effects  of  rosa-solis,  good  living,  and  state 
nursing  had  rendered  plethoric  and  dull,— and  surrounded  only  by  the 
strange  faces  of  the  six  appointed  gondoliers,  it  was  probable  that  the 
good  effects  which  might  be  hoped  from  the  air  and  exercise,  would,  if 
thus  administered,  be  counteracted,  and  the  young  Desdemona’s  health 
suffer  in  consequence ; instead  of  telling  Signior  Brabantio  all  this,  she 
resolved, — as  many  a prudent  wife  would  have  done,  trained  in  the  same 
school  with  the  lady  Erminia, — to  let  the  child  take  an  occasional  trip 
in  the  state-gondola,  attended  by  her  state-nurse,  and  rowed  by  the  state 
gondoliers,  of  an  evening ; while  she  still  permitted  her  to  go  out  with 
Marianna,  Barbara,  and  Lancetto  in  their  old  quiet  way — but  of  a 
morning , quite  early,  at  an  hour  when  the  breezes  played  as  healthfully, 
as  freshly,  as  coolly,  before  the  sun  had  gained  his  strength,  as  at  the 
time  he  was  sinking  to  rest — and  moreover,  at  an  hour,  when  there  was 
not  the  slightest  chance  of  Desdemona’s  encountering  her  father’s 
gondola  on  the  lagunes. 

As  the  child  grew  in  years,  more  of  her  time  was  spent  with  her 
mother,  and  less  with  her  nurse.  Signior  Brabantio’s  demands  on  his 
wife’s  company  to  the  various  festivities  and  public  entertainments  which 
he  attended,  grew  fewer  and  fewer he  was  content  to  see  her  keep 


318 


DESDEMONA  ! 


house  more,  now,  than  during  the  first  years  of  their  marriage ; and  the 
lady  Erminia  was  equally  content  with  the  power  thus  to  devote  more 
leisure  to  her  child.  She  addressed  herself  in  earnest  to  the  task  of 
cultivating  her  little  daughter’s  heart  and  mind,  inculcating  wise  and 
loving  precepts,  and  teaching  her  all  gentleness,  goodness,  excellence,  of 
which  her  own  nature  yielded  abundant  store. 

Erminia’s  education  had  been  given,  to  her  in  the  days  of  her  father’s 
prosperity ; and  had  therefore  been  as  ample  as  were  her  natural  gifts 
and  capacity,  for  profiting  by  the  liberal  cultivation  bestowed.  She  was 
a musician  of  surpassing  skill ; she  was  an  expert  needlewoman — her 
embroideries  being  as  varied  in  kind  and  design,  as  they  were  beautiful 
in  execution ; and  she  took  delight  in  imparting  her  knowledge  of  these 
things  to  her  child,  that  she  might  in  time  render  her  as  much  an  adept 
as  herself. 

But  in  educating  her  child,  there  was  one  thing,  which  it  had  been 
well,  could  the  lady  have  instilled  : it  was  the  one  thing  needful  in  her 
own  nature,  as  it  was  that  qualification  in  her  daughter  which  was  alone 
wanting  to  make  her  as  perfect  a being  as  ever  existed.  Could  the 
lady  Erminia  have  taught  her  the  honesty  as  well  as  the  modesty  of 
innocence, — the  unflinching  candour  which  ought  to  belong  to  goodness 
and  greatness, — have  inspired  the  courage  of  transparent  truth,  she 
would  have  invested  her  daughter  with  a panoply  that  would  have  proved 
her  best  protection  against  the  diabolical  malignity  by  which  she  was 
one  day  to  be  assailed,  and  borne  her  scathless  through  the  treachery 
which  wrought  her  fate. 

The  lady  Erminia,  however,  was  not  likely  to  communicate  to  her  child, 
that  of  which  she  herself  was  not  only  unpossessed,  but  unconsciously 
devoid.  She  had  not  the  remotest  notion  that  her  husband’s  violent 
temper  had  destroyed  in  hers  that  firmness  and  fearlessness  which  should 
accompany  rectitude ; she  knew  not  that  his  imperious  disposition  had 
banished  from  hers  openness  of  speech  or  action  ; that  she  no  longer 
had  unhesitating  sincerity  in  words,  or  unconstrained  frankness  in  deeds  ; 
and  that,  in  fact,  although  she  had  preserved  her  integrity  of  purpose, 
yet  that  she  had  forfeited  her  straightforwardness,  her  uprightness,  her 
honesty  of  soul. 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


319 


The  same  exquisite  gentleness  formed  the  characteristic  of  the  daugh- 
ter  as  of  the  mother ; and  that  which  might  have  been  stimulated  and 
strengthened  into  consummate  beauty  of  character,  was,  by  example, 
and  by  circumstance,  suffered  to  degenerate  into  the  single  point  of  weak- 
ness which  marred  its  perfection. 

Accustomed  to  see  her  mother  yield  in  silence  even  to  things  in  which 
she  did  not  acquiesce  ; to  see  her  avoid  doing  what  she  tacitly  seemed  to 
agree  to ; to  see  her  evade  what  she  would  not  object  to,  and,  although 
she  never  blamed  or  opposed  in  speech,  yet  quietly  condemned  and  set 
aside  by  act — or  rather  by  non-performance  ; apparently  consenting  and 
approving,  but  in  fact  frustrating  and  censuring  by  a system  of  silent  pas- 
siveness ; the  little  girl  insensibly  acquired  just  such  a system  of  conduct. 
It  suited  with  her  native  disposition, — still,  gracious,  and  serene  ; full 
of  quiet  sweetness,  and  unruffled  calm.  It  secured  her  from  the  chance 
of  opposition  of  contest  in  will ; it  preserved  her  from  the  risk  of  excit- 
ing a father’s  displeasure,  or  of  disputing  his  pleasure  ; for  involuntarily 
it  was  felt  that  his  displeasure  could  be  excited,  were  his  pleasure  dis- 
puted ; and  although  neither  mother  nor  daughter  ever  breathed  even  to 
themselves — far  less  to  each  other — a hint  that  they  held  him  in  awe  ; 
yet  by  mutual  though  unexpressed  consent,  they  let  nothing  reach  his 
knowledge  that  could  by  possibility  prove  distasteful  to  him.  They 
hardly  knew  it — but  so  it  was  ; they  feared  him  more  than  they  loved 
him  : they  dreaded  his  disapprobation,  more  than  they  hoped  to  win  his 
approval.  Over-strained  respect  engendered  reserve.  Had  he  been 
contented  with  a little  less  submission,  he  might  have  commanded  more 
reverence  ; had  he  exacted  less  obedience,  he  might  have  obtained  dearer 
regard  ; with  somewhat  less  implicit  observance,  he  might  have  had  fonder 
affection.  As  it  was,  they  honored  him  as  a husband,  a father  ; but  to 
neither  of  them  was  he  a friend.  They  were  sincerely  attached  to  him ; 
they  had  no  duty  dearer,  than  to  do  him  homage ; no  wish  nearer  their 
hearts,  than  to  do  him  pleasure  ; but  they  never  dreamed  of  asking  him 
to  share  theirs — they  never  expected  him  to  derive  joy  from  their  joys, 
— they  knew  that  no  such  sympathy,  such  equality,  such  mutuality  of 
feeling  existed  between  him  and  them ; and  accordingly,  their  regard  for 


320 


DESDEMONA  J 


him  assumed  the  quality  that  was  thus  engendered.  Brabantio  remained 
paramount  in  the  affections  of  his  wife  and  daughter,  but  he  did  not 
possess  their  confidence.  None  of  that  loving  trust,  that  spontaneous 
cordiality, — which  should  pour  itself  freely  into  the  bosom  of  a woman’s 
dearest  male  friend, — subsisted  between  them  ; but  not  one  of  the  three 
was  conscious  of  its  non-existence.  They  each  thought  that  love — per- 
fect love,  dwelt  amidst  them ; but  love,  to  be  perfect  love,  must  be  free, 
unreserved,  unfearing,  equal. 

One  instance  of  the  effect  produced  on  the  lady  Erminia  by  her  lord’s 
character,  has  been  already  cited  in  the  circumstance  of  her  withdrawing 
from  his  sight  the  nurse  obnoxious  to  him,  while  she  quietly  retained  her 
in  a subordinate  situation  about  the  household  ; another,  in  the  fact  of 
her  adhering  to  the  form  of  his  command  respecting  her  daughter’s  even- 
ing airings  in  the  gondola,  while  she  permitted  the  infringement  of  the 
command  itself,  by  conniving  at  morning  excursions  that  were  not  likely 
to  come  to  his  knowledge.  In  like  manner,  she  indulged  her  love  of  urn 
ostentatious  deeds,  her  desire  to  do  good  privately,  by  many  a secret 
charity,  and  kindly  visit  among  the  poor ; towards  whom  her  own  tem- 
porary adversity  had  taught  her  commiseration  and  interest.  But  with 
instinctive  perception,  she  discerned  that  this  wish  of  hers  would  meet 
with  no  response  from  her  husband  : she  felt  that  his  tastes  had  no 
affinity  with  good  deeds  done  in  secret,  with  charity  bestowed  privately 
and  unostentatiously;  and  moreover,  she  felt  that -he  had  no  liking  or 
interest  for  the  poor  ; nay,  that  he  shrank,  and  held  himself  aloof,  from 
any  contact  or  association  with  those  beneath  him  in  station. 

Accordingly,  Erminia  contented  herself  with  pursuing  her  own  quiet 
way,  carrying  comfort  and  relief  to  many  a destitute  family,  and  suffer- 
ing fellow-creature ; while  she  took  care  so  to  time  her  charitable  visits, 
as  that  they  should  neither  interfere  with  the  hours  which  Brabantio 
passed  in  her  society,  nor  in  any  way  come  to  his  knowledge.  She  avail- 
ed herself  of  Lancetto’s  aid  in  conveying  her  to  and  from  those  obscure 
quarters  of  the  city,  whither  her  benevolent  visits  chiefly  led  her ; while 
the  unused  landing  from  the  corridor  at  the  back  of  the  palace,  afforded 
her  the  means  of  unobserved  egress  and  regress  at  any  hour  she  found 
most  convenient  for  her  purpose. 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


321 


On  these  pious  errands  she  was  frequently  accompanied  by  her  young 
daughter,  whom  she  thus  trained  in  kindly  sympathy  and  compassion, 
initiating  her  in  the  sweet  comforts  that  are  to  be  drawn  from  bestow- 
ing comfort  on  others. 

In  mildness,  in  patience,  in  pity,  and  tender  ministry  to  the  wants 
and  sufferings  of  her  less  fortunate  human  brethren,  this  young  creature 
was  nurtured ; and  the  mother,  in  teaching  her  child  thus  to  know  vir- 
tue, and  to  taste  its  own  ineffable  rewards,  taught  her  also  to  know  and 
reverence  herself.  In  learning  to  emulate  the  virtues  of  her  mother,  the 
young  Desdemona  learned  that  mother’s  true  worth  and  excellence — and 
she  loved  her  little  short  of  idolatry. 

The  lady  Erminia  and  her  child  now  spent  no  hour  apart.  It  is  pro- 
bable that  Brabantio’s  love  of  parade  and  retinue  might  still  have  main- 
tained Madame  Veronica  in  her  office  of  head-nurse  about  his  daughter’s 
person,  even  after  Desdemona’s  age  placed  her  beyond  the  want  of  any 
such  attendant,  had  not  plethora  put  a period  to  that  stately  dame’s  ser- 
vices and  life,  while  a sudden  fever  removed  the  faithful  Marianna  from 
her  post,  about  the  same  time.  But  no  need  had  the  little  girl  now  of 
either  state-nurse,  or  under-nurse ; her  fohd  mother  supplied  the  place 
of  all  other  ministrants,  in  the  ceaseless  dedication  of  her  thoughts  to 
the  one  object  of  all  her  care,  all  her  joy.  She  was  happy  in  being  thus 
able  to  monopolize  her  daughter,  while  she  devoted  the  whole  of  her  own 
time  to  her  welfare ; in  having  her  ever  with  her ; in  letting  her  receive 
from  her  own  hand  alone,  those  services  which  she  would  have  grudged 
being  obliged  to  share  with  menials  in  offering  to  the  child  she  so  loved. 

The  little  Desdemona  repaid  this  devotion  with  her  whole  heart. 
She  never  voluntarily  quitted  her  mother’s  side ; and  hour  by  hour 
would  she  sit  close  to  her,  getting  her  to  tell  the  long  stories  she  loved 
so  to  hear  of  those  old  bygone  times,  that  had  a sad  and  quiet  beauty  of 
their  own ; when  her  gentle  mother  had  been  a girl  herself,  and  had  lived 
in  retirement  and  even  penury,  with  her  old  blind  father. 

Her  child  loved  to  hear  of  the  sightless  eyes,  that  still  turned  affec- 
tionately though  vainly  towards  the  voice  of  her,  whose  best  reward  for  a 
life  of  unaccustomed  toil,  was  to  look  upon  those  eyes,  which  though  they 


322 


DESDEMONA  ; 


could  yield  no  look  in  return,  yet  in  their  vacancy,  and  in  the  slightest 
flitter  of  their  lids,  were  dearer  than  all  beside.  The  child  loved  to 
hear  of  the  young  nobleman,  so  handsome,  so  refined,  that  came  to  her 
mother’s  solitude,  gilding  it  with  a strange  new  light ; investing  it  with  a 
mysterious  charm  it  had  never  known ; of  the  absorbing  feeling  which  took 
possession  of  her,  teaching  her  that  all  she  had  hitherto  known  of  affec- 
tion and  attachment  and  devotion  towards  those  she  loved,  was  faint  in 
comparison  with  what  she  now  felt  for  him  ; of  the  romance  of  their  secret 
marriage ; of  the  young  wife’s  pride  and  enthusiastic  faith  in  the  noble 
qualities  and  exalted  worth  of  him  who  had  thus  made  her  one  with  him- 
self. The  child  loved  to  hear,  too,  of  that  gallant  boy,  the  young  bro- 
ther, who,  in  the  days  of  their  prosperity,  besought  his  father’s  leave  to 
quit  their  luxurious  home  for  the  sea,  on  which  he  hoped  to  gain  as  glo- 
rious laurels  as  his  sire  had  won  before  him.  She  listened  breathlessly, 
eagerly,  to  the  tale  of  the  father  and  daughter’s  protracted  suspense  dur- 
ing that  season  when  hope  strove  against  misgiving,  hearing  no  news  of 
the  absent  Grratiano ; and  to  the  account  of  the  terrible  moment  when 
they  were  compelled  to  believe  the  truth  of  the  intelligence  that  reached 
them  of  his  having  perished.  She  never  wearied  of  hearing  about  that 
fateful  day,  when  the  young  seaman  suddenly  reappeared  before  his  sis- 
ter’s wondering  eyes — when,  in  the  midst  of  their  agitated  meeting,  they 
had  been  surprised  by  the  abrupt  entrance  and  as  abrupt  vanishing  of 
the  young  husband — when  the  unexpected  knowledge  of  his  son’s  being 
still  alive  had  caused  the  old  man’s  death — when  she  herself  had  been 
born,  in  the  midst  of  that  mingled  joy  and  sorrow — all  the  events  of 
that  strange  day,  in  short,  she  took  ceaseless  delight  in  hearing.  And 
then,  she  and  her  mother  would  pause,  in  wonder,  and  regret,  that  the 
young  seaman  should  so  soon  again  have  quitted  the  sister  who  took  so 
true  a joy  in  his  return  ; and  then  Desdemona  would  utter  longing  wishes 
that  she  could  behold  and  know  the  gallant  sailor-uncle,  whom  she  loved 
for  the  sake  of  that  mother  over  whom,  she  had  hung  in  the  hour  of  her 
own  birth. 

But  years  passed  on,  and  still  they  saw  or  heard  nothing  of  Grratiano. 

On  the  death  of  Marianna  Marini,  her  daughter  had  been  promoted 


THE  MAGNIFIC07S  CHILD. 


823 


to  the  long-promised  post  of  handmaiden  to  the  lady  Erminia.  Like 
many  vivacious  people,  Barbara  felt  sorrow  keenly.  The  shock  of  her 
mother’s  sudden  death  had  deprived  her  of  rest,  and  appetite.  Her 
strength  and  spirits  forsook  her ; she  moped,  grew  thin  and  pale,  and 
seemed  wasting  away  visibly.  The  lady  Erminia,  with  her  usual  gen- 
tleness and  consideration,  thought  nothing  so  likely  to  revive  the  droop- 
ing girl  as  placing  her  about  her  own  person,  where  she  could  the  more 
readily  receive  sympathy,  with  kind  and  affectionate  words  that  might 
as  nearly  as  possible  replace  the  mother’s  fondness  she  had  lost.  That 
mixture  of  protection  and  caressing  familiarity  which  subsists  between 
an  Italian  mistress  and  maid,  was  precisely  the  treatment  best  calculated 
to  soothe  and  restore  Barbara  from  her  present  mood.  The  duration 
of  her  grief,  therefore,  was  not  so  long  as  its  first  vehemence  seemed  to 
forebode  ; she  gradually  recovered  her  spirits,  cheered  by  the  gentle  kind- 
ness of  the  lady  Erminia  and  her  daughter.  In  the  passionate  gratitude 
and  attachment  she  felt  towards  them,  subsided  the  bitterness  of  her 
sorrow ; and  by  degrees,  her  cheek  resumed  its  color  and  roundness, 
her  step  its  alertness,  her  spirits  their  natural  gaiety ; once  more  her 
song  was  heard  blithe  and  ringing  as  she  tripped  about  the  house,  sweet 
and  subdued  in  her  lady’s  presence,  or  cheerily  carolling  as  her  lay  kept 
time  to  her  fingers  in  her  silk  spinning. 

Not  so  with  her  brother  Lancetto.  The  lad  had  demonstrated  little 
or  no  violence  of  emotion  at  the  time  of  his  mother’s  death  ; but  ever 
since  then,  an  additional  shade  of  sadness  had  clouded  his  face  and  hung 
its  weight  upon  his  limbs.  Ever  quiet,  and  shy,  and  shrinking  from  ob- 
servation, the  increase  of  inertness  was  less  perceptible  in  him  than  it 
might  have  been  in  one  more  naturally  active ; but  still  to  a watchful  eye, 
he  would  have  given  evidence  of  change — of  the  change  worked  by  un- 
complaining regret,  that  gnaws  inwardly,  and  shows  only  in  languor,  de- 
pression, and  apathy.  The  deaf  boy  crept  about  silently ; disregarded 
by  others,  and  disregarding  them ; but  then  he  had  never  been  remark- 
ably talkative  or  sociably  inclined,  so  that  his  comrades  scarcely  per- 
ceived that  he  was  more  silent,  or  sought  their  society  less  than  ever. 
They  merely  left  him  to  himself,  and  gradually  came  to  take  no  more 


324 


DESDEMONA  : 


notice  of  Kim  than  if  he  had  been  hewn  out  of  marble ; — one  of  the  sculp* 
tured  figures  that  ornamented  the  great  hall  of  the  palace. 

Perhaps  his  sister  might  have  learned  to  note  that  Lancetto  was 
more  shy,  more  retiring,  more  quiet,  and  more  sadly  silent  than  he  had 
ever  been  before ; but  it  happened  about  this  time  that  her  head  and 
heart  were  filled  with  quite  another  matter. 

She  had  fallen  in  love.  There  was  a certain  handsome  young  gondo- 
lier, named  Paolo,  who  had  found  out  that  Barbara,  the  lady  Erminia’s 
handmaiden,  had  not  only  the  sweetest  voice,  but,  to  his  thinking,  the 
neatest  figure,  the  trimmest  ankle,  the  most  sparkling  eye,  to  be  found 
in  all  Y enice,  where  such  pretty  gifts  abound ; and  Paolo  had  not  only 
made  up  his  mind  in  awarding  to  Barbara  this  preeminence,  but  he  had 
found  means  to  acquaint  her  with  his  opinion,  to  inform  her  of  the  effect 
this  discovery  had  upon  his  heart,  and  to  entreat  that  she  would  try  and 
discover  some  personable  points  in  him  which  she  might  deem  worthy 
of  matching  with  her  own  matchless  perfections.  Some  such  sentiment — 
slightly  incongruous  as  it  might  be  in  its  expression — he  contrived  to 
put  into  easy  singing  verse — Italian  in  its  ease,  its  singing  chime,  and 
its  slender  regard  to  sense,  so  that  it  was  but  full  enough  of  love — 
amore  and  cuore — bellezza,  dolcezza — doloroso,  amoroso — vezzosa,  gra- 
ziosa — &c.  &c. ; and  then  he  sang  them  and  thrummed  them  beneath  a 
certain  window  that  he  trusted  might  be  hers.  By  good  fortune  the 
window  not  only  proved  to  be  Barbara’s,  but  the  voice,  the  guitar,  the 
sense — or  nonsense — of  the  rhyme,  the  good  looks  of  the  singer,  and  the 
pretty  flattery  of  his  song,  altogether  appealed  so  irresistibly  to  the  young 
girl’s  fancy,  that  she  became  as  much  enamoured  as  himself;  and  it  was 
an  understood  thing  between  them  that  as  soon  as  Barbara  should  have 
her  mistress’s  sanction  to  her  marriage,  they  would  be  united.  Mean- 
time, however,  the  handmaiden  was  too  happy  in  her  pleasant  service, 
too  much  attached  to  her  lady,  to  be  in  any  great  hurry  to  leave  her : 
she  accordingly  took  no  pains  to  obtain  that  sanction ; but  contentedly 
enjoyed  her  present  life,  divided  between  the  pleasures  of’waiting  on  her 
beloved  mistress,  and  the  pleasures  of  courting,  with  her  handsome  lover. 

Pleased  to  see  her  favorite  restored  to  her  native  gaiety,  the  lady 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


325 


Erminia  took  kindly  interest  in  the  affection  that  subsisted  between  the 
young  couple,  and  would  sometimes  rally  her  attendant  upon  having  won 
the  liking  of  the  best-looking  youth  in  all  Venice,  and  smile  at  the 
dimpling  and  blushing  with  which  Barbara  acknowledged  that  she  thought 
so  too,  even  while  she  coyly  pretended  to  care  little  for  good  looks,  not 
she ; but  that  she  pitied  him  for  being  so  desperately  in  love  with  her- 
self ; for  she  understood  that  while  half  the  girls  in  V enice — forward 
creatures  ! — were  plaguing  him  with  their  admiration,  and  running  after 
him,  yet  that  he  couldn’t  forsooth  fancy  any  body  but  his  own  little 
Barbara. 

“ But  I tell  him,  my  lady,  that  he  must  wait,  if  he  must  needs  have 
her,  and  nobody  less ; for  she  can’t  leave  her  lady  yet  awhile,  to  please 
him,  nor  twenty  such  young  fellows — good-looking  as  he  may  be — or  as 
he  may  think  himself — or  as  those  bold  creatures  teach  him  to  think 
himself ! ” 

“ Thou  wilt  allow  they’ve  good  taste,  at  any  rate said  the  lady 
Erminia  archly ; “ Paolo  is  as  likely  and  handsome  a man  as  we  shall 
see  in  a summer’s  day  ! They  certainly  have  good  eyes  in  their  heads  ; 
eh,  Barbara?* 

u Good  eyes,  my  lady  ? Not  a bit  of  it ! Not  one  of  ’em  ! Be- 
sides, if  they’d  ever  such  good  eyes  of  their  own,  what  right  have  they 
to  be  letting  them  follow  his,  and  judge  his  ? What  are  his  eyes  to  them, 
I should  like  to  know.  I wish  they’d  let  his  eyes  alone  !” 

u I don’t  doubt  it  Barbara said  her  lady  ; “ but  as  long  as  his  eyes 
are  as  handsome  as  they  are,  how  can’st  wonder  that  others  will  find  it 
out,  beside  thyself  ? ” 

u I,  my  lady  ? I never  said  I found  them  handsome,  did  I ? ” 

“ But  thou  think’st  so  ; eh,  Barbara  ? ” 

“ They’re  well  enough  ; they’re  large,  and  dark,  and  full  of — -at  least, 
I believe  so ; I hardly  ever  looked  at  them  long  enough  to  know  much 
about  them.” 

“ But  perhaps,  others  have  had  more  courage,  and  looked  at  them  a 
little  longer,  and  taken  more  interest  in  finding  out  that  they’re  large, 
and  dark,  and  full  of — eh,  Barbara  ? ” said  her  mistress  ; amusing  herself 


326 


DESDEMONA  ! 


with  her  handmaiden’s  pretty  affectation  ; u and  if  so,  these  others  may 
he  less  able  to  withstand  the  attractions  and  influence  of  Paolo’s  hand- 
some eyes  than  the  hard-hearted  little  Barbara.” 

“ I’m  not  hard-hearted,  my  lady.” 

Her  lady  smiled.  “ No,  in  good  sooth,  Barbara,  I do  not  think  thou 
art.” 

fi  No,  indeed,  my  lady  ; I only  wish,  as  I said  before,  that  they’d  let 
Paolo’s  eyes  alone.” 

<£  And  not  1 make  eyes’  at  him,  as  we  say  ; nor  feel  inclined  to  scratch 
thine  out,  eh,  Barbara;  because  he  happens  to  fancy  no  eyes  so  well  ?” 

“ Just  so,  my  lady  ; I wish  they’d  only  leave  both  our  pair  of  eyes 
alone — they’re  quite  enough  for  each  other.” 

“ I’ve  no  doubt  of  it,  Barbara said  her  mistress,  with  her  quiet 
smile.  “ And  now  go  see  whether  my  lord  be  about  to  attend  the  senate, 
and  my  daughter  be  ready  to  come  from  his  room  hither.  If  so,  set  the 
embroidery  frame ; and  then  we  shall  not  need  thee  for  an  hour  or  two, 
which  thou  may’st  idle  away,  an  thou  wilt,  in  looking  from  the  windows 
of  the  corridor,  that  if  a certain  pair  of  handsome  eyes  should  be  look- 
ing up  in  hope  of  a glance  from  thine,  neither  his  nor  thine  may  be 
disappointed.” 

Barbara  tripped  away,  blushing,  and  biting  her  lip  to  hide  a smile, 
and  humming  an  air  with  a little  mocking  toss  of  her  head,  as  if  truly 
she  cared  no  jot  for  the  disappointment  on  either  side  ; nay,  that  it  could 

be  none  to  her. 

There  was  a good  deal  of  truth  in  what  had  been  playfully  said, 
touching  the  extended  influence  of  the  handsome  gondolier’s  eyes.  They 
had  caused  many  a heartache  among  the  damsels  of  his  acquaintance. 
He  was  by  no  means  a flirt ; had  taken  no  undue  advantage  of  the  per- 
sonal merits  he  might  boast ; but  the  hearts  of  fair  Italians  are  apt  to 
be  susceptible,  and  cannot  readily  resist  the  fascinations  of  a pair  of 
handsome  dark  eyes,  even  if  they  use  no  other  eloquence  than  their  own 
beauty  of  form  and  color.  Paolo’s  had  never  expressed  love,  until  they 
encountered  pretty  Barbara  ; therefore  they  were  not  to  blame  for  the 
many  conquests  they  had  involuntarily  achieved ; and  though  he  was 


THE  MAGNIFICCTS  CHILD. 


327 


not  entirely  unconscious  of  the  several  likings  he  had  inspired.,  yet  he 
had  never  sought  one,  until  his  whole  heart  became  absorbed  in  winning 
Barbara’s. 

It  was  therefore  hard  upon  him,  that  the  liking  of  one  among  these 
damsels,  was  so  pertinacious,  that  no  cold  averted  looks,  no  neglect,  no 
pointed  indifference  on  his  part,  could  suffice  to  discourage  her  from  per- 
secuting him  with  evidence  of  the  attachment  she  felt.  This  girl,  Nina, 
had  all  along  made  no  secret  of  her  hope,  that  by  the  constancy  and 
fervour  of  her  own  passion,  she  should  in  time  win  him ; and  it  was 
therefore  with  dismay  that  she  learned  he  was  not  only  still  indifferent 
to  herself,  but  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  elsewhere.  She  watched  him 
now,  more  closely  than  ever,  and  it  was  not  long  before  she  made  the 
discovery  she  sought  yet  dreaded.  She  learned  who  had  succeeded  where 
she  had  failed  ; she  found  out  who  had  entire  possession  of  that  heart, 
which  she  had  been  unable  so  much  as  to  touch  ; and  with  the  fury  of 
despair,  she  vowed  to  exchange  her  love  for  hate. 

She  now  dogged  his  steps  with  no  less  pertinacity  than  before — though 
with  quite  a different  motive.  Formerly  she  had  followed  him,  seeking 
to  attract  his  notice,  to  win  his  regard ; now  she  lurked  unseen,  furtive, 
watchful  for  some  opportunity  of  effecting  her  vengeful  purpose.  But  she 
thought  herself  more  determined  than  she  was  ; she  fancied  wrath  had 
taken  firmer  place  within  her,  and  inspired  a stronger  and  more  fatal  in- 
tent than  it  really  had.  She  believed  that  she  had  fully  resolved  rather 
to  kill  him  than  to  see  him  wedded  to  another ; that  rage  had  destroyed  all 
tenderness  towards  him  ; but  she  still  hesitated  to  strike  the  blow  which 
was  to  end  his  life  and  her  torture.  At  length  she  determined  on  mak- 
ing one  more  appeal  to  him,  ere  she  gave  up  all  hope,  and  sealed  his  fate 
and  her  own.  It  was  a stormy  interview,  although  it  took  place  beneath 
the  cloudless  azure  of  a Venetian  sky,  and  on  the  peaceful  bosom  of  the 
Lagunes. 

Nina  had  perceived  Paolo’s  vessel  taking  its  way  across  the  broad 
waters,  towards  the  Lido  ; she  had  flung  herself  impetuously  into  her 
father’s  boat,  and,  herself  a gondolier’s  daughter,  well  accustomed  to 
manage  the  oar,  followed  in  his  track. 


328 


DESDEMONA  I 


The  young  man  seeing  himself  pursued  by  a gondola  propelled  by  a 
woman,  had  paused,  wondering  and  curious,  that  she  might  come  up  with 
him,  and  discover  who  she  was,  and  what  she  wanted  : but  when  he  saw 
it  was  Nina  ; and  her  wild  words,  furious  yet  imploring,  reproachful,  bit- 
ter, menacing,  beseeching,  passionate  and  impassioned,  all  by  turns,  told 
her  errand,  and  the  lingering  hope  with  which  she  had  sought  him,  he 
regretted  having  permitted  her  to  overtake  him. 

Mildly,  and  softly,  he  answered  at  first ; unwilling  to  speak  words 
few  men  like  to  utter  to  women : but  when  he  found  she  misinterpreted 
his  gentleness  and  hesitation,  he  frankly  and  firmly  told  her  how  impos- 
sible it  was  for  him  ever  to  return  the  passion  she  avowed.  She  retorted, 
by  upraiding  him  with  being  warm  to  another  while  he  was  so  cold  to 
her  ; with  being  capable  of  love  for  one  who  never  would — who  never 
could — love  him  with  such  a love  as  she  herself  bore  him  : she  sprang 
into  his  boat,  flung  herself  at  his  feet,  embraced  his  knees,  and  in  an  agony 
of  entreaty  besought  him  not  to  kill  her  by  spurning  her  affection  ; then 
stung  by  his  silence,  she  started  up,  and  drawing  a knife  from  the  folds 
of  her  dress,  attempted  to  plunge  it  into  his  bosom  ; but  he,  though  taken 
by  surprise,  succeeded  in  mastering  the  weapon,  wrenching  it  from  her, 
and  casting  it  into  the  water. 

“ Weak  woman’s  hand!”  she  exclaimed,  as  she  clenched  it  in  the 
scorn  and  wrath  of  defeat ; “ weaker  still  the  woman’s  heart,  that  quailed 
and  seconded  its  impotence,  instead  of  aiding  it  to  strike ! But  a time 
will  come,  when  heart  and  hand  shall  avenge  more  surely, — nerved  by 
your  own  to-day’s  cruelty,  Paolo.  Merciless  to  me,  you  have  taught  me 
to  show  no  mercy ; and  be  sure  I will  have  none !” 

She  cast  herself  into  the  other  boat,  and  floated  speedily  away ; 
whilst  Paolo,  agitated  and  unmanned  by  this  personal  struggle  with  an 
enraged  woman,  let  his  vessel  glide  on  towards  the  Lido,  feeling  the 
solitary  spot  to  be  in  peculiar  unison  with  his  mood.  He  was  glad  to 
be  alone,  that  he  might  recover  from  his  emotion  before  the  time  came 
for  his  repairing  to  meet  Barbara.  He  reached  the  dreary  stretch  of 
sand ; hastily  moored  his  boat ; and  threw  himself  at  full  length  upon 
the  ground. 


THE  MAGNIFIES  CHILD. 


329 


He  was  a good-natured,  well-disposed  youth,  and  it  had  given  him 
sincere  pain  to  behold  a girl’s  face  distorted  with  such  violence  of  feel- 
ing ; to  see  her  frame  writhe  and  fling  itself  prostrate  before  him ; to 
witness  such  transports  of  mingled  anguish  and  fury — -of  which  he  him- 
self was  the  involuntary  cause ; and  he  could  not  readily  throw  off  the 
painful  impression  the  scene  had  left.  He  thought  much  less  of  the 
attempt  she  had  made  upon  his  life,  than  he  did  of  her  misery,  the  as- 
pect of  which  haunted  and  distressed  him.  The  sun  rose  high  in  the 
heavens,  and  poured  its  meridian  blaze  full  upon  his  unsheltered  head, 
as  he  still  lay  there,  unconscious  of  the  lapse  of  time.  At  length,  when 
he  arose,  he  found  himself  faint  and  giddy.  Oppressed  with  his  own 
sensations,  and  with  the  noontide  heat,  he  staggered  towards  his  boat, 
and  returned  to  Yenice  ; thinking  that  an  hour’s  talk  with  his  Barbara 
in  the  shady  corridor  at  the  back  of  the  palace,  would  do  more  to  restore 
him  to  his  former  self,  than  a whole  day  of  troubled  cogitation. 

“ I’ll  think  no  more  of  the  girl said  he  to  himself ; “ after  all,  is 
it  my  fault  if  she’s  wilful,  and  chooses  to  make  herself  unhappy?  Let 
me  think  of  sweet  Barbara,  and  her  pleasant  looks,  and  pretty  ways ; 
such  whimsies  and  caprices,  and  playful  wilfulnesses  as  hers,  are  indeed 
just  what  should  belong  to  a woman.” 

Meantime,  Nina  had  returned  to  Yenice,  with  rage  and  disappoint- 
ment fiercer  than  ever  within  her.  She  hurried  home  ; but  unable  to 
breathe  beneath  a roof,  had  soon  restlessly  wandered  forth  again.  She 
had  gone  at  one  time  for  a few  minutes  into  a place  of  public  resort, 
where  some  of  her  companions  and  neighbours  were  busied  about  their 
ordinary  occupations ; she  stood  idly  by,  watching  them  abstractedly ; 
but  one  of  them  chancing  to  speak  to  her,  she  turned  away,  and  stood 
apart,  leaning  against  the  balustrade  of  a bridge  that  crossed  the  canal 
near  there.  Here  she  remained,  watching  the  current  as  it  swept  slug- 
gishly through  the  arches,  beneath  the  parapet  over  which  she  hung, 
looking  wistfully  but  dreamingly  into  the  water. 

After  a time,  she  suddenly  roused  herself;  pushed  back  the  hair 
from  her  temples ; glared  round  with  a flushed  cheek  and  haggard  eye  ; 
and  then  she  retraced  her  steps  at  a swift  pace  to  her  home.  She  went 


330 


DESDEMONA  ! 


straight  in  ; walked  towards  a particular  spot ; seized  up  something 
which  she  securely  hid ; and  then  hurried  out  again,  as  abruptly  as  she 
had  entered. 

u Why  delay  it  ?”  she  muttered  ; “ it  must  and  shall  be  done ; why 
then  delay  ? Can  I ever  have  better  force  than  now,  while  the  recollec- 
tion of  his  scorn  burns  fresh  within  me  ? This  is  the  very  hour,  I know, 
when  he  visits  his  minion.  There,  I shall  make  sure  of  him.” 

She  glided  swiftly  along ; making  her  way  by  some  of  the  narrow 
alleys  and  passages  that  thread  an  obscure  footway  through  Yenice^ 
until  she  reached  the  landing  leading  up  into  the  corridor,  at  the  back 
of  Brabantio’s  palace.  She  made  sure  that  the  long  gallery  was  empty; 
she  sped  along  it,  and  concealed  herself  among  the  folds  of  a tapestry 
curtain,  which  was  occasionally  drawn  across  a doorway  leading  into  the 
vaulted  hall,  but  which  now  hung  in  dark  heavy  drapery  on  one  side. 
Here  she  paused ; her  heart  beating  high  ; her  breath  held,  but  coming 
short  and  quick;  her  pulse  throbbing;  her  feet  contracted;  her  hands 
clenched. 

Presently  there  was  a light  step;  it  came  through  the  hall,  and 
tripped  along  the  corridor, — the  person  whose  step  it  was,  passing  so 
close  to  Nina  as  to  brush  the  folds  of  tapestry  that  enveloped  her. 
There  were  voices ; a hurried  meeting ; a light  word  or  two,  exchanged 
for  an  anxious  enquiry  ; and  then  Nina  plainly  heard  the  words : — 

“No  time  for  mocking  jest,  indeed!  How  pale  you  are,  Paolo? 
And  how  hot  and  feverish  your  hands  ! Your  lips  are  parched — you 
are  ill !” 

“ I have  been  lounging  too  long  in  the  heat,  I believe,  with  my  head 
uncovered  ; but  never  fear,  Barbara  ; not  quite  a sun  stroke  ! Pm  only 
a little  giddy — it  will  pass.  Put  your  cool  hand  to  my  forehead — that 
will  cure  me  in  a trice.” 

“ Stay,  I will  fetch  you  a draught  of  iced  water ; that  will  refresh 
you.  I won’t  be  gone  many  minutes.” 

The  light  quick  footsteps  came  back;  the  figure  repassed  through 
the  curtained  doorway ; and  again,  all  but  touched  the  hidden  Nina. 

“Now  is  the  very  moment ! Now,  Nina,  nerve  thy  heart  and  hand 
for  one  sure  blow !” 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


S3. 


For  one  instant,  she  looked  forth.  He  was  standing  alone,  partly 
turned  from  her,  beside  one  of  the  long  range  of  windows  which  gave 
light  to  the  gallery  on  one  side,  overlooking  the  canal.  He  leaned 
against  the  embrasure,  and  had  one  hand  raised  to  his  head ; his  hair 
was  put  back  from  his  face,  and  showed  it  wan  and  suffering. 

Not  allowing  herself  to  note  his  look,  she  only  perceived  he  was 
alone,  and  off  his  guard.  Darting  from  her  concealment,  she  made 
towards  him ; but  whether  some  unconscious  check  to  her  speed  had 
reached  her  in  the  glimpse  she  caught  of  his  white  face,  or  whether  the 
space  she  had  to  traverse,  afforded  him  some  instant  warning  of  her  ap- 
proach, he  had  just  time  to  turn,  ere  she  attacked  him.  He  caught  at 
her  upraised  arm.,  and  attempted  to  seize  the  knife  from  her : but  she 
was  desperate,  and  clutched  it  tight,  and  struck  madly  at  his  face  with 
it.  There  was  a stern  wrestle — as  if  between  man  and  man — for  a 
second  or  so.  He,  disabled  by  his  illness,  and  yet  more  by  his  disincli- 
nation to  cope  with  a woman : she,  resolved,  and  deadly  in  her  purpose, 
there  was  more  of  equality  in  the  encounter  than  might  have  been  sup- 
posed. Twice  he  had  tried  to  grasp  her  wrist,  and  both  times  she  had 
twisted  it  from  him,  and  thrust  again  at  his  throat — his  face  ; until 
goaded  by  such  pertinacious  assault,  he  put  forth  his  strength,  and 
forced  her  to  give  back. 

Sh^  stumbled  against  the  open  window — lost  her  balance — Tell  out? 
dropping  the  knife  at  his  feet. 

Horror-stricken  he  gazed  out  after  her.  He  saw  the  head  strike 
against  the  side  of  the  gondola;  and  then,  her  body  plunge  into  the 
water.  Once  again  he  beheld  the  face,  as  she  rose  to  the  surface.  It 
was  turned  towards  him  with  a look— one  look — such  a look  ! — it  turned 
him  to  stone. 

He  remained  there,  hanging  out  of  the  window,  unable  to  stir ; his 
eyes  staring  from  their  sockets,  and  fixed  upon  the  waters  where  they 
had  closed  upon  the  upturned  face — his  mouth  agape  and  rigid — his 
arms  nerveless — his  body  incapable  of  moving — powerless — helpless. 

He  was  found  thus  by  Barbara,  when  she  returned  with  a draught 
of  water. 


332 


DESDEMONA  ! 


On  her  approaching  him,  he  did  not  turn  towards  her ; he  neither 
spoke,  nor  moved.  In  great  alarm  she  addressed  him,  and  besought  him 
to  answer — to  look  at  her.  At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  he  stared  round 
vacantly,  and  then  fixed  his  eyes  with  a mournful  gaze  upon  hers.  In 
piteous  accents  she  implored  him  to  speak — to  tell  her  how  it  was  with 
him  ; and  then  she  pressed  him  to  drink  of  the  cool  draught  she  had 
brought,  to  revive  him. 

He  waved  the  glass  from  him  ; and  with  his  eyes  still  mournfully 
fixed  upon  hers,  he  said  : — u And  so  you  would  have  me  swallow  that, 
would  you,  Nina?  You  cannot  stab  me — you  would  offer  me  poison, 
would  you  ?” 

He  laughed  a low  unnatural  laugh,  that  thrilled  Barbara  to  hear. 

“ Dear  Paolo  !”  she  said  soothingly ; and  would  have  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  arm  ; but  the  instant  he  felt  her  touch,  he  pushed  her  back 
roughly,  and  said,  with  sparkling  eyes,  “ I would  fain  not  hurt  you— 
you’re  a woman  ; but  do  not  tempt  me — do  not  urge  me  too  far.” 

“ Dear,  dear  Paolo,”  again  she  said,  weeping ; “ do  you  not  know 
me?  Will  you  cast  off  your  own  Barbara?” 

“I  know  you,  Nina;  I know  you!  You  cannot  beguile  me.  I 
cannot  love  you- — I tell  you  plainly — I can  love  none  but  Barbara  !” 

“ I am  Barbara — your  own  poor  little  Barbara.  0 Paolo  ! Do  you 
not  indeed  know  that  it  is  I ?” 

She  wrung  her  hands ; and  once  more  would  have  approachea  him  to 
throw  her  arms  about  him,  that  she  might  strive  to  soothe  him  with 
those  caresses,  one  of  which  he  had  so  often  vainly  entreated,  in  some 
of  their  happy  courting  times,  when  she  would  play  the  sportive  tyrant. 

But  again,  the  moment  she  attempted  to  touch  him,  he  flung  her 
from  him ; and  this  time  with  such  violence,  that  she  reeled,  and  could 
not  help  screaming  aloud,  with  the  fright  and  pain  of  receiving  so  heavy 
a blow  from  that  hand. 

“ I warn  you — keep  back,  Nina  ! Or  I cannot  answer  for  myself!” 
he  exclaimed. 

Just  then,  her  brother  Lancetto  entered  the  corridor.  He  had  of 
course  heard  nothing  of  Barbara’s  cry,  but  a glance  at  her  disturbed 


THE  MAGNIFICOo  CHILD. 


333 


countenance,  and  that  of  Paolo,  told  him  that  something  fearful  was  the 
matter  between  them. 

His  sister  hastily  communicated  to  him,  by  means  of  the  signs  which 
were  in  use  between  them,  that  Paolo  had  been  seized  with  a sudden 
illness,  which  seemed  to  bereave  him  of  his  senses ; that  he  did  not 
know  her ; that  he  took  her  for  some  one  else. 

Lancetto  went  towards  the  unhappy  young  man,  and  spoke  some 
gentle  words  to  him  : Paolo  seemed  somewhat  calmer  at  the  lad’s  voice  ; 
but  when  Lancetto  attempted  to  lead  him  towards  Barbara,  he  drew 
back,  shuddered,  and  pointing  at  her,  said  in  a hissing  whisper: — “ You 
don’t  know  what  she  has  done — she  would  have  used  her  knife  upon  me ; 
but  it  lies  yonder ; best  pick  it  up,  lest  she  recover  it,  and  strike  at  me 
again.” 

Lancetto  heard  not  the  words,  but  he  saw  his  sister’s  eye,  directed 
by  the  stealthy  movement  of  Paolo’s  finger,  glance  towards  a corner  of 
the  window,  in  which  lay  the  weapon  that  had  dropped  from  Nina’s 
clutch,  when  she  fell. 

“ She  sees  it ! She  will  use  it  again  ! You  know  not  how  she  per- 
sists, to  compass  her  deadly  will !”  And  Paolo  darted  to  the  spot,  that 
he  might  be  first  to  seize  the  knife. 

Barbara,  dreading  that  in  his  wild  excitement  he  might  turn  the 
weapon  upon  himself,  was  about  to  spring  forward  to  arrest  his  hand ; 
but  perceiving  that  her  least  movement  only  seemed  to  excite  him  still 
farther,  she  checked  herself,  and  stood  with  clasped  hands,  and  stream- 
ing eyes,  watching  him,  and  striving  to  keep  herself  as  motionless  as 
might  be.  Lancetto,  seeing  Paolo  thus  eyeing  his  sister  with  distrustful 
and  threatening  looks,  again  approached  him,  entreating  him  to  be  calm, 
and  to  say  what  had  angered  him  against  her. 

Paolo  quietly  gave  the  knife  into  Lancetto’s  hand,  still,  however, 
maintaining  an  eye  upon  Barbara,  saying : — “ Keep  it  securely ; let  her 
not  know  where  you  hide  it — and  then  we  shall  be  safe  from  her.  Come 
away ; let’s  leave  her ; if  she  follow  us — as  she  may — for  she’s  not 
easily  repulsed, — we’ll  use  her  own  knife  upon  her.  She  shall  not  come 
between  Barbara  and  me — I’ve  told  her  so,  plainly ; let  her  not  tempt 
me  again.” 


334 


DESDEMONA  J 


Scowling  upon  the  miserable  girl,  he  drew  her  brother  away ; who, 
yielding  to  his  movement,  contrived  to  whisper  to  Barbara  that  he 
would  but  lead  Paolo  home,  and  then  return  to  comfort  her. 

But  comfort  there  was  never  more  to  be  for  Barbara. 

Nothing  could  divest  the  unfortunate  Paolo  of  the  impression  he  had 
first  conceived  after  the  shock  his  brain  had  undergone  from  that  fatal 
accident,  occurring  as  it  did  so  immediately  upon  long  exposure  to  the 
noonday  sun.  Nothing  could  do  away  with  his  conviction  that  Barbara 
was  Nina;  and  he  shunned  her  with  no  less  abhorrence  now,  than  he 
had  formerly  sought  her  with  fondness. 

The  very  love  he  felt,  showed  itself  in  hate ; for  he  fled  Barbara, 
thinking  her  to  be  Nina,  for  the  sake  of  herself. 

This  delusion  lasted.  In  all  else  he  was  sufficiently  sane.  He  went 
about  his  ordinary  occupations,  little  changed ; except  that  he  was  sub- 
ject to  restless,  excited  moods,  and  a propensity  to  wander  away  alone, 
muttering  to  himself,  and  scowling  gloomily.  These  moods  always 
occurred  after  any  attempts  on  the  part  of  Barbara  to  see  him,  or  to 
revive  a recollection  of  their  former  happy  attachment.  He  always 
shuddered  at  her  sight;  the  sound  of  her  voice — that  voice  which  had 
always  possessed  such  charm  for  him — would  irritate  and  bewilder  him  ; 
the  slightest  approach  of  her  hand  or  person,  would  be  sure  to  madden 
him  outright ; he  would  then  push  her  from  him,  and  break  away  wildly, 
threatening,  frowning,  and  wrathful. 

This  distempered  fancy  and  strange  aversion  of  her  lover  broke  poor 
Barbara’s  heart.  She  bore  it  patiently,  bravely,  at  first,  trusting  that 
he  might  yet  recover.  She  would  not  yield  all  hope — until  all  hope  was 
snatched  from  her.  Her  brother  Lancetto,  from  the  very  first  day  of 
Paolo’s  distraction,  had  devoted  himself  to  his  friend ; he  took  up 
his  abode  with  him ; kept  near  him  through  the  day ; watched  him 
through  the  night ; and  was  indeed  a brother  to  his  sister’s  unhappy 
lover.  But  Barbara,  unable  to  relinquish  all  belief  that  her  presence, 
which  had  once  been  the  source  of  such  joy,  might  still  be  the  happy 
means  of  restoring  him,  upon  one  occasion  stole  to  see  them,  as  was  her 
frequent  wont.  She  found  Paolo  in  a somewhat  softened  mood ; her 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


335 


brother  whispered  that  he  had  been  more  rational  for  some  days  past : 
she  crept  into  a distant  seat,  and  watched  him  through  her  tears,  as 
Lancetto  spoke  to  him  in  his  quiet  voice,  and  told  him  that  Barbara  was 
come  to  see  him. 

He  started,  looked  round,  and  smiled ; then  uttered  that  unnatural 
laugh  which  was  so  sorrowful  to  hear — so  unlike  his  once  joyous,  open, 
hearty  hilarity. 

She  ventured  to  sing,  in  a soft  undertone,  some  little  simple  air  he 
had  formerly  loved. 

The  familiar  strain  seemed  to  lull  and  assuage  his  agitation : for  he 
remained  quite  still,  gazing  vacantly  into  the  corner  of  the  room  where 
she  sat, — and  listened.  The  evening  was  advanced,  and  he  could  dis- 
tinguish little  save  the  outline  of  her  figure  in  the  dark.  She  then, 
tremblingly, — but  trying  to  master  her  emotion, — commanded  her  voice 
sufficiently  to  sing  his  favorite  song ; one  which  he  himself  had  taught 
her,  and  which  expressed  the  love  he  would  have  had  her  feel  and  avow. 
Often,  in  the  times  of  her  playful  despotism,  she  had  coyly  refused  to 
sing  him  this  trifle,  pretending  it  confessed  too  much ; now  she  volun- 
teered it  in  the  depth  of  a timidity,  earnest,  anxious,  far  other  than  the 
once  pretended  bashfulness ; she  then  affected  fear  in  the  height  of 
happy  confidence  ; she  now  assumed  courage  in  the  midst  of  her  heart’s 
dread. 

The  sound  of  this  air — the  well-known  words — the  association  of 
both  melody  and  verse  with  his  love — with  that  season  of  happiness  and 
joy — with  her  whom  he  had  loved,  and  still  loved,  so  fondly — affected 
him  profoundly. 

He  gasped — fastened  his  eyes  upon  the  spot,  as  long  as  the  song 
continued.  At  its  close  he  held  forth  his  outstretched  arms  towards  the 
voice,  and  exclaimed  brokenly : — ■“  My  Barbara  !” 

She  could  not  resist  that  call — that  offered  embrace  ; sick  and 
famishing  with  so  long  fast  from  his  kindness — athirst  for  his  estranged 
affection — blinded  by  beholding  them  once  more  tendered  thus  unre- 
strainedly, she  rushed  forward,  and  threw  herself  upon  his  bosom. 

But  he  no  sooner  felt  her  clinging  to  him,  than  he  started  up,  thrust 


336 


DESDEMONA I 


her  head  back,  to  look  at  her  face,  exclaiming : — “ Who  is  this?  Nina  !” 
Then  forcing  himself  out  of  her  arms,  and  hurling  her  from  him,  with  a 
wild  cry,  he  dashed  through  the  doorway,  leaped  into  his  boat,  and  dis- 
appeared over  the  dark  waters. 

After  that  night  he  was  seen  no  more* — he  never  returned  ; and  after 
that  night,  Barbara  never  lifted  up  her  head.  She  went  about,  a forlorn, 
dejected,  listless  creature.  She,  once  so  gay  and  chirping, — no  cricket 
was  ever  a more  cheerful  household  thing — now  slunk  to  and  fro,  joy- 
less, hopeless.  It  was  plain,  her  spring  of  life  was  snapped — her  heart 
had  broken — her  spirit  had  died  within  her. 

Her  early  merry  tunes  and  happy  airs  were  all  forsaken ; she  never 
sang  at  all,  save  one  plaintive  old  ditty  that  seemed  to  haunt  her  fancy ; 
for  she  hummed  it  well-nigh  incessantly,  though  apparently  without  con- 
sciousness. She  crooned  it  in  her  sleep — when,  restless  and  uneasy,  she 
would  turn,  and  toss,  and  mutter,  wetting  the  pillow  with  her  tears ; she 
would  wake  herself  with  mingled  sobs,  and  broken  snatches  of  this  same 
old  song ; she  would  let  her  spindle  lie  idle  on  her  knee,  while  she  gazed 
vacantly  into  the  cloudless  heavens,  peopling  them  with  visions,  and 
murmuring  its  simple  burden  of  “ willow,  willow,  willow.”  She  lapsed 
into  its  soft  wail,  as  she  watched  the  evening  planet,  or  crescent  moon ; 
and  when  the  myriad  brightness  of  stars  shone  forth  in  the  blue  depth 
of  a Yenetian  night,  Barbara’s  sad  “willow,  willow;  sing  all  a green 
willow,”  would  steal  from  her  lips  in  faint  despondent  cadence. 

She  lacked  neither  attention  nor  sympathy.  Her  kind-hearted 
mistress,  the  lady  Erminia,  left  nothing  untried,  to  comfort,  to  restore 
her ; the  young  Desdemona,  by  her  tender  ingenuity  in  devising  means 
to  cheer  and  console  the  dying  girl,  repaid  back  the  debt  which  her  own 
babyhood  owed  to  Barbara’s  ceaseless  efforts  to  amuse  and  delight  her. 
If  in  Desdemona’s  infancy,  Barbara’s  mirth  and  sprightliness  had  been 
exerted  untiringly  for  her  pleasure,  in  Barbara’s  season  of  affliction,  in 
her  last  hours  of  despair,  and  heart-broken  misery,  Desdemona’s 
affectionate  care  was  to  the  full  as  cordially,  as  lavishly,  as  constantly 
bestowed  in  return. 

But  no  kindness  could  console — no  care  restore ; nothing  could 


THE  MAGNIFIES  CHILD. 


337 


avail  to  revive  the  drooping  girl.  She  literally  pined  to  death  before 
their  eyes.  She  never  uttered  a complaint ; never  alluded  to  her  loss  ; 
never  spoke  Paolo’s  name ; but  she  lost  all  interest  in  life,  and  took 
notice  of  nothing,  and  no  one. 

She  was  quiet,  utterly  passive*  to  all  that  was  said  or  done,  and  neithet 
accepted  nor  refused  attentions.  She  would  curtsey  mechanically  in 
reply  to  her  lady’s  enquiries,  but  she  rarely  answered  them  by  words. 
She  would  try  to  smile  when  her  young  mistress  sought  to  win  her  notice 
by  some  kind  piece  of  thoughtfulness,  or  gentle  endearment. 

When  her  brother  Lancetto  hovered  near,  endeavouring  to  express  his 
quiet  sympathy,  she  would  feebly  essay  to  form  some  of  the  signs  by 
which  they  were  accustomed  to  hold  communication ; but  her  hands 
would  soon  drop  by  her  side ; her  eyes  would  fix  wistfully  ; she  would 
sigh,  and  hang  her  head  ; and  then  she  would  murmur,  £<  sing  all  a green 
willow.” 

It  did  not  last  long.  One  evening,  she  was  so  weak,  that  her  young 
lady  had  placed  her  upon  a couch,  near  the  open  window,  that  she  might 
enjoy  the  fresh  air,  without  exertion  ; for  she  could  not  even  bear  the 
motion  of  a gondola — or  rather  the  fatigue  of  being  conveyed  into  one. 

It  was  the  lady  Erminia’s  private  room,  where  she  could  have  whom  she 
liked,  without  chance  of  Brabantio’s  coming  to  object  that  her  associates 
were  unworthy  her  presence.  x\ccordingly,  she  sat  there  at  her  embroi- 
dery, while  her  daughter  went  to  and  fro  between  'the  frame,  and  Bar- 
bara’s couch ; now  plying  her  needle  with  her  mother,  now  setting  and 
rearranging  the  pillows  beneath  the  sick  girl’s  head,  who  had  sunk  into 
a soft  doze.  Lancetto  stood  quietly  by,  also  ; for  he  had  come  to  see 
his  sister,  and  the  lady,  bidding  him  not  disturb  her,  asked  him  to  wait 
until  she  should  awake. 

The  chamber  was  hushed.  No  sound  but  the  low  breathing  of  the 
sleeper  broke  the  stillness.  Presently,  clear  and  pure  arose  that  sweet 
voice,  so  sad,  so  touching  in  its  tone  of  forlornness : it  seemed  an  involun- 
tary revelation  of  her  sense  of  abandonment, — an  unconscious  utter- 
ance of  her  sorrow ; her  despair.  “ Sing  all  a green  willow  must  be  my 
garland.” 


338 


DESDEMONA  ! 


A pause,  during  which  the  listeners  dared  not  look  at  each  other, 
lest  they  might  see  the  moistened  eyes,  each  knew  the  other  wore ; then, 
again  the  sweet  voice  breathed  forth  soft  and  low : — ■“  Let  nobody  blame 
him,  his  scorn  I approve.'’ — The  words  were  checked  by  a deep  sigh,  as 
the  sleeper  turned  uneasily.  A moment  after,  she  opened  her  eyes,  and 
attempted  to  sit  up. 

Desdemona  was  at  her  side  instantly.  # She  assisted  her  to  rise ; re- 
adjusted the  pillows,  and  whispered  a few  tender  words, — cheering,  en- 
couraging. Lancetto  crept  near  to  his  sister,  and  took  her  hand  within 
his. 

a He  forsook  me,  because  he  loved  me — I would  have  you  know  that 
she  said.  u Mark  it  well ; he  forsook  me,  because  he  loved  me.  He 
left  me  to  seek  me.  He  thought  I would  have  kept  him  from  myself — 
so  he  threw  me  off,  that  he  might  go  and  find  me.  He  thrust  me  away, 
but  to  be  true  to  me.  He  pushed  me  from  him,  for  my  own  sake.  Be 
sure  of  that ; he  forsook  me,  because  he  loved  me.  Let  nobody  blame 
him,  his  scorn  I approve — mark  that  well !” 

She  turned  to  Lancetto,  and  pressed  the  hand  that  held  hers ; she 
turned  to  Desdemona  and  faintly  smiled,  looking  into  her  eyes.  Then 
she  closed  her  own ; and  with  an  inward  breath  chanted  u willow,  willoWj 
wilbw  — and  so,  died. 

This  young  girl’s  sorrow  and  untimely  death  made  a profound  im- 
pression on  Desdemona.  It  saddened  and  depressed  her  to  a degree, 
of  which  no  less  gentle  a nature  than  hers  would  have  been  capable. 
It  is  rarely  that  childhood  feels  grief  thus  deeply;  but  Desdemona  was 
a rare  child.  Her  feelings  were  moulded  of  such  exquisite  tenderness 
and  sensibility,  her  imagination  was  so  lively,  so  susceptible,  her  heart 
was  so  benign,  so  humane,  so  full  of  sympathy,  charity,  and  all  kindliness, 
that  she  not  merely  pitied  the  unhappiness  of  others — she  shared  it ; 
she  not  only  deplored,  and  commiserated  suffering,  she  made  it  her  own ; 
she  so  warmly,  so  entirely,  interested  herself  in  that  which  affected  those 
she  loved,  that  she  became  affected  in  nearly  a similar  manner. 

Barbara’s  fate  impressed  her  so  strongly,  that  she  fell  into  a dejected 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


339 


spiritless  mood,  which  alarmed  her  mother.  She  moped,  grew  absent, 
abstracted,  regardless  of  the  objects  which  usually  interested  her.  She 
acquired  a habit  of  standing  idly,  inanimately,  her  hands  clasped  loosely 
before  her,  her  arms  hanging  at  length,  her  head  drooping,  her  gaze  bent 
vacantly  forth,  without  having  any  apparent  aim ; and  once,  her  mother 
saw  her  lips  move,  and  heard  her  unconsciously  murmur  the  words  of 
poor  Barbara’s  dying  song. 

The  lady  Erminia’s  motherly  heart  took  fright.  She  thought  she 
saw  her  daughter  sinking  into  the  same  apathy  which  had  preceded  the 
young  girl’s  death.  She  imparted  her  uneasiness  to  h^r  lord,  and  be- 
sought his  permission  to  take  their  child  for  a short  time  from  a spot 
which  was  evidently  fraught  with  too  painful  association  for  her  young 
heart. 

Brabantio  caught  his  wife’s  alarm.  He  gave  immediate  orders  for 
their  removal  to  a villa  he  possessed  on  the  Brenta,  that  change  of  scene 
might  work  its  beneficial  effects  in  giving  a turn  to  the  thoughts  and 
daily  habits  of  his  child.  He  appointed  a proper  retinue  to  attend  the 
lady  Erminia  and  her  daughter  thither ; prescribed  the  establishment  of 
a numerous  household,  in  his  usual  style  of  pomp  and  magnificence ; 
and  promised  to  join  his  wife  and  daughter  there,  as  soon  as  the  affairs 
of  state  should  permit  his  absence  from  Venice. 

The  prospect  of  change  is  seldom  without  its  attraction  for  childish 
fancy ; and  already  the  thought  of  going  to  spend  some  time  in  a coun- 
try-house with  her  mother,  gave  evident  pleasure  to  the  young  Desde- 
mona,  and  awakened  a look  of  interest  and  expectation  in  her  face,  which 
it  had  not  worn  since  poor  Barbara’s  death.  Both  mother  and  child 
enjoyed  the  anticipation  of  this  excursion  and  sojourn  together ; and, 
but  for  one  incident,  their  pleasure  would  have  been  unalloyed. 

On  the  day  fixed  for  their  departure,  during  the  bustle  and  hurry  of 
removal,  Brabantio  came  hastily  into  his  wife’s  apartment,  where  she 
sat  at  her  embroidery-frame  with  Desdemona  ; Lancetto, — who  since  his 
sister’s  death  had  been  appointed  page  to  the  lady  Erminia, — being  there 
also  in  waiting. 

The  magnifico  was  full  of  some  arrangement  he  had  been  making  for 


340 


DESDEMONA  ] 


his  lady’s  comfort  and  convenience  on  the  journey ; and  he  brought  with 
him  a casket,  which  held  a rich  carcanet,  gemmed  with  rubies  and  pearls, 
for  Erminia’s  wear.  He  told  her  that  he  did  not  expect  her  to  dress 
like  a rustic  now  that  she  was  to  be  in  villeggiatura  ; but  that  he  had 
brought  her  a new  ornament  for  her  throat  as  a sample  of  the  style  in 
which  he  hoped  to  see  her  appear  when  he  should  come  to  them  at  Bel- 
vista. 

The  lady  thanked  her  lord,  as  so  gallant  a token  deserved ; and 
added,  she  should  make  the  casket  even  more  precious  by  keeping  in  it 
the  letters  she  jioped  to  receive  from  him,  until  such  time  as  he  could 
come  himself. 

He  smiled ; and  was  about  to  show  her  the  secret  of  the  spring-lock 
which  fastened  it ; when  perceiving  that  he  had  not  the  key  with  him, 
he  bade  the  page  go  to  his  room,  and  fetch  it  from  the  table  where  he 
supposed  he  had  left  it. 

Lancetto,  of  courss,  did  not  hear  the  command.  Brabantio,  perceiv- 
ing that  the  lad  stood  motionless,  instead  of  starting  to  obey  him  with 
the  alacrity  which  usually  followed  his  slightest  behest,  exclaimed : — - 
“Did’st  thou  mark  me,  sirrah?  Why  art  not  gone?”  The  angry  look, 
caught  the  lad’s  attention,  but  he  in  vain  sought  its  meaning. 

The  lady  Erminia  hastily  made  a sign  to  her  page,  by  which  she 
told  him  what  her  lord  desired ; but  Brabantio  said  : “ What  mummery’s 
this  ? Must  thou  await  a signal  from  another,  ere  thou  obey’st  my  or- 
ders? Methinks,  I am  lord  here,  and  a word  from  me  may  suffice.” 

“ The  poor  lad’s  deaf,  my  father whispered  the  gentle  voice  of 
Desdemona : for  her  mother  was  trembling,  and  could  not  speak.  And 
then  she  repeated  the  order  in  such  method,  as  that  the  page  should  un- 
derstand what  he  was  to  do  ; desiring  him  to  hasten,  in  fetching  the  key. 

The  magnifico  muttered  a frowning  “ pshaw,”  as  he  examined  the  fret- 
work of  the  gold  casket,  and  drummed  his  fingers  impatiently  on  the  lid, 
while  Lancetto  was  gone. 

He  speedily  returned,  with  a key,  which  he  tendered  to  Brabantio ; 
who  had  no  sooner  snatched  it  from  him,  than  he  exclaimed : — “ Why, 
this  is  not  the  key  of  the  casket,  dolt ! This  is  the  key  of  my  cabinet ! 


THE  MAGNIFICo’s  CHILD. 


341 


Thou’rt  dull  as  well  as  deaf,  not  to  be  able  to  bring  the  key  I sent  thee 
for.  This  is  not  the  right  one  !” 

The  page,  who  heard  not  a syllable,  but  saw  by  the  irate  expression 
of  his  master’s  face  that  there  was  something  wrong,  stood  meekly 
waiting. 

This  only  incensed  Brabantio  the  more,-  who  exclaimed  : — Out  of 
my  sight,  sirrah  ! Be  gone  ! I’ll  have  none  here,  who  cannot  obey  me 
at  a word.” 

“ He  is  obedient ; but,  alas,  he  cannot  hear.  Bear  with  him,  my 
lord murmured  Erminia. 

“ And  why  should  I ? I’ll  have  no  dullards  about  me,  that  cannot 
hear  a plain  command.  Let  him  be  dismissed,  I say.” 

u He  is  Barbara’s  brother said  the  lady  softly ; for  the  reluctance 
she  felt  to  part  with  one  thus  associated,  gave  her  courage  to  contend 
for  a moment  with  her  husband’s  will. 

“What  then?  Were  he  mine  own  brother,  he  should  away,  an’  he 
knew  not  how  to  obey  a command  of  mine.  See  how  the  contumelious 
varlet  stands  there,  and  stirs  not.  Begone,  fellow ; when  I bid  thee  !” 

Brabantio  actually  stamped  his  foot,  exasperated  to  fury  by  the  deaf 
lad’s  unmoved  look  ; so  unaccustomed  was  he  to  behold  any  thing  but  the 
most  implicit  and  instantaneous  submission  to  the  slightest  intimation  of 
his  will. 

The  lady  Erminia  and  her  daughter  both  hastily  signed  to  the  page 
that  he  sh  mid  retire ; but  it  was  too  late  to  appease  the  anger  of  the 
magnifico,  who  reiterated  his  command  distinctly  and  emphatically,  that 
Lancetto  should  be  at  once  and  for  ever  discarded  from  the  household. 

His  dismissal  cost  the  lady  Erminia  a pang ; not  only  for  the  lad’s 
own  sake,  whom  she  had  grown  to  like  for  his  quiet  ways,  and  faithful 
attachment  towards  herself  and  child ; but  for  the  sake  of  his  poor 
mother  and  sister.  However,  there  was  no  motive  which  could  long 
weigh  importantly  with  her,  against  the  consideration  of  her  husband’s 
will  and  pleasure,  and  accordingly  Lancetto  was  given  up. 

In  the  beautiful  villa  Belvista,  on  the  Brenta,  Erminia  spent  some 
very  happy  time.  She  had  the  joy  of  seeing  the  bloom  return  to  her 


342 


DESDEMONA  ! 


daughter’s  cheek ; the  look  of  health  revisited  the  face  ; the  vigour  of 
health  reanimated  the  frame ; the  gleeful  expression  native  to  youth, 
once  more  sparkled  in  the  eyes ; and  the  lady  felt  that  her  child  was 
spared  to  her. 

It  was  a charming  retreat ; and  possessed  that  delight  of  all  delights 
to  a child — especially  a Venetian  child — a garden.  There  were  bowers, 
and  alcoves,  and  terraces,  and  fountains ; sloping  turfs,  statues,  and 
vases  ; avenues,  and  tufts  of  trees  ; with  flower-beds  in  profusion.  Here, 
the  mother  and  daughter  passed  their  days  in  blissful  retirement. 
There  was  ample  opportunity  for  pursuing  their  studies,  their  elegant 
needlework,  their  music,  and  the  thousand  and  one  feminine  avocations, 
that  a mother  devises  for  the  employment,  the  instruction,  the  pastime 
of  a beloved  daughter.  Here,  Desdemona  recovered  health,  while  she 
acquired  that  complete  knowledge  of  housewifely  duties,  and  that  variety 
of  graceful  attainment,  which  caused  her  to  be  afterwards  noted  as  one 
of  the  most  accomplished  women  of  her  time.  Here  she  cultivated  and 
developed  those  endowments,  wThich  subsequently  shone  forth  in  such 
maturity  of  excellence. 

But  while  her  daughter  grew  in  beauty,  health,  and  accomplishment, 
the  lady  Erminia  gradually  declined  in  strength.  Her  diminished 
energy,  for  some  time,  was  perceptible  only  to  herself ; for  she  shrank 
from  paining  her  husband  by  its  discovery ; and  she  still  more  carefully 
preserved  the  secret  from  her  daughter,  whose  youth  and  happiness  she 
would  not  have  had  clouded  by  anxiety  and  alarm. 

But  Brabantio  was  too  sincerely  attached  to  her  not  to  make  the 
discovery  for  himself.  His  affection  for  Erminia  had  ever  been  the 
most  powerful  of  the  few  tender  emotions  he  had  experienced  ; and  it 
now  enabled  him  to  perceive  the  first  apparent  tokens  of  her  declining 
health.  He  proposed  change  of  air  and  scene  ; he  planned  a delightful 
journey  for  her  round  the  coast  of  Italy  in  one  of  his  superb  galleys. 

They  took  their  young  daughter  with  them  ; they  lingered  about  the 
beautiful  shores  of  the  Adriatic  and  Mediterranean,  and  purposely  pro- 
tracted the  time  of  their  pilgrimage,  that  its  changes  and  wanderings 
might  renovate  the  vigour  of  her  who  was  so  dear. 


THE  MAGNIFIES  CHILD. 


343 


The  plan  succeeded  ; for  a long  space  of  time,  the  evil  was  warded 

off. 

Both  mother  and  daughter  were  so  well  pleased  with  Belvista,  that 
on  the  conclusion  of  their  tour,  they  prayed  to  return  thither  instead  of 
to  Y enice ; and  Brabantio  indulged  their  wish ; repairing  thither  him- 
self as  frequently  as  his  senatorial  duties  permitted. 

Some  years  elapsed,  unmarked  by  any  particular  event ; excepting 
that  each  year  Desdemona  seemed  to  her  fond  mother  to  increase  in 
worth  and  loveliness. 

It  was  not  until  her  daughter  was  on  the  verge  of  womanhood,  that 
the  malady  returned,  and  the  lady  Erminia  died.  When  her  hour 
came,  it  found  her  calm,  peaceful,  resigned.  Her  death  was  serene, 
gentle,  as  her  own  nature.  She  sank  into  rest.  She  slept,  never  more 
to  awake. 

Her  mother’s  death  was  severly  felt  by  Desdemona.  But  it  pro- 
duced no  such  effects,  as  the  shock  of  Barbara’s  early  fate.  Her  char- 
acter had  since  acquired  the  sobriety  and  calm  of  added  years,  as  well 
as  of  holy  teaching.  Her  mother  had  carefully  implanted  faith,  reliance, 
and  trust,  in  comforts  not  of  earth ; such  as  might  prove  her  child’s  con- 
solation in  the  hour  she  herself  had  long  foreseen.  Instead  therefore 
of  yielding  to  despondency,  and  the  languor  of  sorrow,  Desdemona  strove 
to  derive  consolation  from  a more  correct  fulfilment  of  her  duties ; she 
offered  her  vows  to  Heaven  with  a fervour  and  zeal  of  piety  no  less 
trustful  of  comfort  than  unfeigned  in  humility ; she  devoted  herself  to 
her  father’s  will  and  pleasure,  and  studied  how  she  might  best  conduce 
to  his  happiness  ; she  resumed  those  errands  of  charity  and  benevolence, 
which  she  had  first  learned  to  perform  from  the  example,  and  in  the 
company  of  her  beloved  mother.  This  association  alone,  would  have 
rendered  them  dear  to  her  heart,  and  a source  of  consolation,  even  had 
they  not  possessed  a consoling  virtue  of  their  own,  in  their  nature  and 
exercise.  But  partly  from  habit,  partly  from  individual  feeling,  innate 
and  acquired,  her  own  soul  alone  was  cognizant  of  the  source  whence  she 
sought  to  derive  solace.  She  confided  to  no  one  her  aspirations,  her 


344 


DESDEMONA  ! 


duteous  endeavours ; she  found  what  comfort  she  could  from  them,  hut 
she  savoured  them  silently,  secretly,  with  no  other  guide  than  her  own 
spirit  of  love  and  gentleness. 

To  her  father  she  appeared  in  her  quiet  assiduity,  ever  at  hand  to 
minister  to  his  pleasure,  during  his  domestic  hours ; she  was  affection- 
ately duteous,  meekly  watchful,  beautiful,  soft-paced,  sweet-voiced,  with 
a hand  dexterous  and  light,  eyes  serene  in  their  fond  observance,  and  a 
carriage  so  still  and  easy,  that  she  seemed  rather  to  glide  to  and  fro, 
than  to  walk  or  step  from  place  to  place.  She  had  a buoyant  grace 
of  motion,  as  if  borne  on  wings,  or  floated  upon  air.  She  looked  an 
embodiment  of  household  peace  and  joy ; the  tranquillity,  and  dove-like 
nested  comfort  of  home  personified  in  woman — home’s  presiding  genius. 

Her  father  had  brought  his  daughter  back  with  him  from  Bel  vista 
to  Venice  on  the  death  of  her  so  dear  to  them  both.  Now  it  was  that 
he  for  the  first  time  learned  the  full  value  of  the  treasure  he  had  lost, 
and  of  the  treasure  his  Erminia  had  bequeathed  to  him.  In  his  child, 
Desdemona,  he  found  renewed  all  those  gentle  virtues  that  distinguished 
her  mother  ; and  he  grew  to  love  her  with  a double  love, — for  her  own 
sake,  and  for  hers  of  whom  she  reminded  him.  Reflected  in  the. 
daughter,  he  perceived  the  true  lustre  of  those  qualities  inherited  from 
the  mother,  and  learned  to  prize  them  at  their  real  worth.  He  had 
never  so  entirely  known  his  wife’s  excellence  as  now,  that  he  beheld  it 
shining  in  his  daughter’s  beauty  and  virtue. 

But  though  he  thus  recognized  and  worshipped  gentleness  in  the 
characters  of  his  wife  and  daughter,  his  own  nature  gained  nothing  of 
corresponding  suavity.  He  was  still  the  same  imperious  Brabantio; 
proud,  harsh,  despotic.  Though  a fond  and  indulgent  father,  he  was 
fond  and  indulgent  only  after  his  own  peculiar  fashion.  He  was  fond 
of  his  daughter  for  her  attention  and  submission  to  him  ; he  took 
pleasure  in  her  beauty,  her  accomplishments;  he  was  intensely  conscious 
of  her  grace  and  loveliness ; he  indulged  her  in  every  desire  she  could 
form  of  taste  or  luxury.  But  he  was  as  far  as  ever  from  any  power  of 
winning  her  confidence,  or  responding  to  the  sympathies  and  hidden 
instincts  of  affection  and  imagination  which  lurked  within  her  heart. 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


345 


He  knew  nothing  of  them ; he  suspected  nought  of  their  existence 
beneath  that  serene  exterior,  that  still  demeanour  of  hers.  She  was 
hardly  aware  of  them  herself ; but  had  she  known  them  ever  so  palpa- 
bly, she  would  all  too  surely  have  felt  they  could  meet  no  response  from 
him.  What  aspirations  she  was  imperfectly  conscious  of,  therefore,  she 
locked  close  within  her  own  thoughts,  and  let  the  only  satisfaction  they 
sought,  be  found  in  secret  and  in  silence. 

Thus  it  came,  that  her  fervour,  her  yearning  desire  to  hold  com- 
munion with  the  spirit  of  her  mother,  her  hope  to  gain  fortitude  for  the 
endurance  of  her  loss,  led  her  forth  at  quiet  morning  hours ; to  matins, 
or  early  mass,  in  one  of  the  churches  that  neighboured  her  father’s 
palace.  Here,  in  the  gray  dawn,  before  the  sun  poured  his  golden  rays 
through  the  dim  aisles,  to  touch  with  light  and  warmth  the  marble 
pillars  and  pavement,  would  Desdemona  kneel,  pouring  forth  her  soul 
in  prayer  and  adoration,  in  humble  supplication,  in  hope,  in  trust, 
in  faith. 

To  this  quiet  old  church,  would  the  magnifico’s  child  steal  all  unsus- 
pected and  unattended,  irresistibly  drawn  thither  by  her  pious  ardour, 
her  desire  for  unwatched  devotion. 

And  thus  it  came  also,  that  her  inward  craving  for  kindness  and 
sympathy,  and  the  necessity  for  doing  good  natural  to  her,  led  her  to 
watch  for  those  periods  of  the  day  when  her  father’s  attendance  at  the 
senate  ensured  his  not  requiring  her  presence  at  home,  that  she  might 
take  her  way  to  such  haunts  of  poverty  and  distress  as  she  knew  furnished 
ample  scope  for  her  charitable  purposes. 

It  might  be,  that  beside  this  feeling  which  made  her  shrink  from 
letting  her  pursuits  be  known,  she  was  swayed  by  a spice  of  that  romance 
which  had,  in  his  youth,  led  her  own  father  to  take  a sort  of  delight  in 
the  mystery  attending  his  secret  marriage  and  intercourse  with  Erminia: 
certain  it  is,  that,  inherited  or  not,  there  was  a strong  tendency  to  the 
imaginative  and  the  romantic,  in  Desdemona’s  disposition.  Her  fancy 
had  always  been  strangely  excited  about  that  absent  sailor-uncle  of  hers ; 
his  abrupt  departure,  his  unexplained  absence,  his  probable  adventures, 
had  always  possessed  a singular  charm  of  wonder  and  speculation  for 


346 


DESDEMONA  : 


her  mind,  and  had  occupied  many  an  hour  of  solitary  musing.  The 
fascination  which  all  that  presented  food  for  her  imagination  had  for 
her,  might  thus  have  been  one  source  of  the  unobserved  way  in  which 
she  chose  to  pay  her  visits — both  of  piety  and  charity.  But  the  main- 
spring of  her  reserved  conduct,  was  undoubtedly,  awe  of  her  father. 

One  morning,  soon  after  her  return  to  Venice,  Desdemona  had  gone 
forth  to  the  old  church  close  by.  It  was  situated  on  the  banks  of  a nar- 
row by-canal,  and  was  not  many  paces  from  the  Brabantio  palace ; so 
that,  plainly  dressed  and  veiled,  the  lady  could  readily  reach  it  un- 
observed. 

She  had  been  so  engrossed  with  her  devotions,  that  she  did  not 
remark  a lad  who  was  kneeling  not  far  from  the  spot  where  she  had 
taken  her  place  ; but  when  she  arose,  upon  the  conclusion  of  the  service, 
and  passed  near  to  the  spot  where  he  still  crouched  upon  the  pavement, 
she  was  surprised  to  hear  a stifled  cry,  and  find  that  her  veil  was 
abruptly,  and  as  if  by  an  involuntary  movement,  seized,  and  its  hem 
pressed  to  the  lips  of  the  kneeling  person. 

She  looked  upon  the  face  more  attentively ; and  then  she  saw  that, 
however  altered  by  illness  and  suffering,  however  wan  and  attenuated,, 
it  was  no  other  than  Lancetto’s. 

She  uttered  his  name  in  a tone  of  pity  and  surprise.  The  lad  could 
not  hear  the  sound ; but  he  saw  that  he  was  recognized. 

“ Forgive  me,  lady  ! I could  not  forbear” — he  faltered, 

Desdemona,  in  her  benign  way,  raised  him  ; and  then,  by  signs,  asked 
what  had  befallen,  since  he  had  left  the  Brabantio  palace ; expressing 
regret  for  the  want  and  misery  betokened  in  his  looks ; for,  haggard 
eyes,  pale  cheeks,  ragged  clothing,  spoke  a plain  tale. 

He  told  her  all  his  little  history.  How,  upon  his  dismissal,  he  had 
gone  back  to  the  old  place  where  Paolo  had  lodged,  and  where  he  had 
watched  and  tended  him  in  his  distraction.  How  he  had  lingered  there 
in  his  own  disgrace  and  abandonment,  reckless  of  what  became  of  him, 
after  being  turned  away  from  the  only  roof  where  he  had  known  happi- 
ness. How  he  had  been  driven  forth  by  the  pangs  of  hunger  to  seek 
food ; how  his  scanty  resources  were  soon  exhausted ; how  he  had  hung 


THE  MACxNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


347 


about  the  public  places,  the  Piazzetta,  and  St.  Mark’s  Square,  in  hope 
of  meeting  with  some  charitable  person  who  would  be  content  to  take  a 
poor  lad  as  page,  without  a character,  on  the  strength  of  his  need ; how 
he  had  failed  in  all  such  hope ; how,  when  well-nigh  starving,  he  had 
wandered  away  from  the  great  thoroughfares,  lest  he  might  no  longer  be 
able  to  resist  the  temptation  to  beg  (which  had  often  beset  him,  he  said, 
when  he  beheld  the  throng  of  well-clothed,  well-fed  people  passing  close 
to  him) ; and  how  that,  on  creeping  along  by  a l<t\v  deserted  mud-bank, 
skirting  one  extremity  of  the  city,  looking  out  towards  the  gulf,  he  had 
perceived  an  empty  boat  drifting  along  near  in  shore.  That  he  had 
0 been  struck  by  a look  about  the  craft,  which  he  thought  he  knew ; that 
he  had  succeeded  in  drawing  it  t©  land ; when,  upon  examination,  he 
had  recognized  it  surely  for  Paolo’s  boat,  which  he  had  first  suspected  it 
to  be. 

He  went  on  to  say,  that,  though  the  finding  of  the  boat  had  occa- 
sioned him  much  grief, — as  affording  but  too  clear  evidence  of  the  fate 
of  his  friend, — yet  that  eventually  it  had  furnished  him  with  the  means 
of  livelihood  ; bare  and  scanty  it  is  true,  for  there  was  great  difficulty  in 
getting  any  one  to  hire  a gondolier  who  had  the  inconvenient  misfortune 
of  being  deaf ; but  still,  by  plying  constantly,  and  endeavouring  to  re- 
commend himself  by  patience  and  assiduity,  he  had  contrived  to  ward  off 
absolute  famine. 

One  of  Desdemona’s  first  works  of  charity,  was  to  establish  this  poor 
lad  in  comfort  in  the  old  lodging  that  had  been  his  friend’s;  he  was  thus 
made  independent  of  chance  hirers,  while  she  crowned  his  content,  by 
herself  using  his  gondola  whenever  she  required  transport  to  and  fro  on 
her  benevolent  visitations  to  the  sick,  the  poor,  and  the  afflicted.  By 
this  means,  too,  the  privacy  she  so  much  desired,  was  ensured ; for  Lan- 
cetto  could  bring  his  gondola  to  the  small  water-entrance  at  the  back  of 
the  palace ; and  Desdemona,  muffled  in  the  quiet  black  dress,  veil,  and 
mask,  which  formed  the  ordinary  out  door  dress  of  a Venetian  lady, 
could  step  into  the  boat  at  any  hour  she  chose,  without  attracting  other 
observation  than  that  of  her  own  women,  who  were  too  much  attached 
to  their  gentle  mistress,  and  too  well  acquainted  with  her  virtues,  to 


348 


DESDEMONA : 


doubt  the  propriety  of  any  thing  she  chose  to  do,  even  had  not  the  dread 
in  which  they  held  the  magnifico,  her  father,  prevented  their  mention  of 
any  circumstance  that  took  place  in  his  household  unknown  to  him. 

But  thus  it  happened,  through  the  disposition  of  Brabantio,  and  the 
soft  timidity  of  his  daughter,  that  a clandestine  air  was  given  to  actions 
not  only  perfectly  innocent,  but  even  virtuous  and  praiseworthy ; and 
that  one  of  the  most  pure  of  women,  insensibly  allowed  herself  a kind 
of  tacit  deception,  and*equivocal  procedure  in  conduct.  Yet  how  should 
she,  conscious  of  unsullied  rectitude  in  thought,  word,  and  deed,  dream 
that  she  was  swerving  from  duty  in  pursuing  those  duties  which  reli- 
gion and  charity  enjoined,  merely  because  she  pursued  them  in  secret? 
To  perform  them  without  parade,,  without  ostentation,  seemed  their 
best  fulfilment.  She  did  not  detect  the  one  motive  beside,  for  conceal- 
ing them — anxiety  to  avoid  her  father’s  possible  disapproval.  The  gen- 
tle Desdemona  meant  honestly ; she  did  honestly — to  the  utmost  power 
of  her  gentle  nature. 

Yery  little  short  of  an  angel  upon  earth  seemed  this  gracious  lady 
to  her  faithful  attendant,  Lancetto,  as  he  conveyed  her  about  the  city 
on  her  missions  of  beneficence,  carrying  help  and  comfort  whithersoever 
she  went.  He  looked  at  her  with  the  reverence  with  which  he  would 
have  gazed  upon  a saint,  as  she  sat  there  beneath  the  black  awning  of 
the  gondola,  muffled  in  her  black  dress  and  veil,  yet  through  all  which 
seemed  to  pierce  the  radiance  of  her  grace,  her  goodness,  her  benign 
beauty. 

Sometimes,  when  they  reached  the  less  frequented  canals,  or  got  out 
upon  the  broad  waters  of  the  lagunes,  Desdemona  would  take  off  her 
mask  and  throw  back  her  veil,  that  she  might  woo  the  welcome  freshness 
of  the  air. 

One  twilight  evening,  as  she  sat  thus,  letting  the  breeze  play  upon  her 
face,  Lancetto  perceived  its  expression  change,  from  its  accustomed  sere- 
nity and  sweetness,  to  a look  of  regretful  reflection. 

The  fair  head  drooped  towards  the  shoulder,  the  cheek  paled,  the  soft 
eyes  filled,  the  hands  fell  listlessly,  the  arms  hung  by  her  side,  and  the 
quivering  lips  gave  utterance  to  some  sound.  The  attitude,  the  whole 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


349 


appearance,  told  her  thoughts  vividly.  The  deaf  lad,  Lancetto,  felt  and 
saw  she  was  thinking  of  his  sister — poor  Barbara  ; and  he  almost  seemed 
to  hear  the  sad  low-breathed  strain  that  he  knew  had  been  hers,  and  to 
distinguish  those  murmured  words  of  u Willow,  willow  ; sing  all  a green 
willow  !” 

The  sob  Lancetto  could  not  restrain,  told  his  mistress  that  the  poor 
lad  had  penetrated  the  subject  of  her  reverie,  notwithstanding  his  defec- 
tive hearing,  and  she  hastened  to  relieve  the  pain  she  had  unwittingly 
caused,  by  some  kindly  communication  addressed  to  him  by  such  signs 
as  he  could  comprehend. 

To  have  recovered  the  services  of  this  poor  lad,  quiet,  mild,  and  faith- 
fully attached,  was  a great  source  of  self-gratulation  to  Desdemona.  She 
was  pleased  to  have  him  once  again,  for  his  own  sake,  for  the  sake  of  those 
with  whose  memory  he  was  associated,  and  for  her  own. 

It  is  broad  noon — the  full  meridian  blaze  of  an  Italian  sun — when  a 
squadron  of  noble  war -galleys  sail  up  the  blue  Adriatic,  and  cast  anchor 
at  the  port  of  Yenice.  The  fleet  brings  news  to  the  state,  of  recent  con- 
quest against  the  Turkish  force ; and  soon  all  is  welcome  and  triumph. 
The  citizens  flock  to  the  quays ; loud  voices  rend  the  skies ; the  court- 
yard and  avenues  to  the  ducal  palace,  are  filled  with  messengers  hurrying 
to  and  fro ; its  balconies  are  thronged  with  senators  and  dignitaries ; 
everywhere  is  eager  inquiry,  and  congratulation.  Among  the  crowds 
who  are  hurrying  ashore  from  the  vessels,  there  is  one  solitary  man 
whom  no  one  welcomes,  no  one  hastens  to  meet,  no  one  receives,  no  one 
observes.  He  is  dressed  like  a Venetian  naval  officer;  and  as  he  pre- 
pares to  quit  the  ship  in  which  he  has  just  arrived,  he  turns  to  wring  the 
hand  of  the  captain,  with  warm  thanks  for  his  aid  since  he  redeemed 
him  from  captivity ; telling  him  he  can  never  forget  that  to  him  he 
owes  it,  that  he  ever  exchanged  the  rags  of  slavery  for  the  uniform 
which  had  been  his  before  his  capture.  The  friends  part ; the  captain 
remaining  on  board  his  galley  to  see  all  his  orders  fulfilled  to  the  last ; 
the  other  hastening  on  shore.  But  he  no  sooner  touches  land  than 
he  quits  it  again  for  a gondola,  into  which  he  flings  himself,  desiring 


350  DESDEMONA  J 

the  boatman  to  convey  him  as  speedily  as  may  be  to  the  Brabantio 
palace. 

“ But  I will  not  risk  any  such  fatal  effects,  as  followed  my  last  hasty 
and  unannounced  return he  muttered  to  himself.  “ I will  send  her 
timely  word  ere  I present  myself,  that  her  gentle  heart  may  be  prepared 
to  welcome  once  again  her  brother.  Time  wears  the  edge  off  all 
things.  Sharpest  stones,  it  wears  smooth  ; actual  pangs  of  grief,  it 
softens  ; keenest  animosities  and  resentments,  it  blunts  into  toleratior 
and  forbearance.  Years  of  absence  have  enabled  me  to  think  of  meeting 
him  now  with  equanimity ; and  if  I find  that  he  has  been  a fond  hus- 
band to  her,  I shall  learn  even  to  regard  him,  for  her  sake.  I think  I 
will  see  him  first,  that  he  may  aid  me  to  break  the  intelligence  to  her. 
Dost  thou  think  thou  can’st  bear  a message  discreetly  to  the  Signior 
Brabantio  for  me,  fellow?”  added  the  officer  aloud  to  the  boatman.  “T 
would  have  conference  ^ith  him  ; and  I think  of  announcing  my  arrival, 
ere  I present  myself.” 

“ You  do  well,  signior  capitano,  to  use  some  little  ceremonial  in  ad- 
dressing yourself  to  the  Signior  Brabantio,  if  you  are  not  intimately 
known  to  him  returned  the  gondolier.  “ The  magnifico  is  high  and 
mighty,  and  does  not  readily  admit  strangers  to  his  presence  without 
credentials  of  their  deserving  the  honor.  I don’t  think  he’s  much 
altered,  to  judge  by  what  I hear  from  those  who  ought  to  know  what  he 
is — being,  as  they  are,  of  his  own  household,  both  Luigi  and  Antonio. 
However,  there  are  not  wanting,  people,  who’ll  tell  you  he  hasn’t  quite 
so  much  of  the  devil’s  graces — pride  and  haughtiness, — as  he  used  to 
have,  before  his  wife’s  death.  Santa  Madre  di  Dio  ! What  makes  you 
turn  so  pale,  signior  capitano  ?”  added  the  man,  as  he  witnessed  the 
effect  of  his  last  words  upon  the  stranger’s  countenance. 

Gratiano, — for  it  was  no  other  than  Erminia’s  long-absent  brother, — 
made  a sign  that  the  boatman  should  delay  his  approach  to  the  Braban- 
tio palace ; and  when  they  had  withdrawn  to  a more  retired  spot,  he 
questioned  the  man  farther,  upon  the  terrible  words  he  had  dropped. 

He  now  too  surely  learned  the  fact  of  his  sister’s  recent  death  ; and 
found  that  his  return  had  been  too  late,  by  a few  months  only.  So  bit- 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


351 


terly  did  he  feel  this  severing  of  the  only  tie  that  bound  him  to  Venice, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  his  redemption  from  captivity  were  valueless,  now 
that  she  no  longer  lived,  who  would  the  most  delightedly  have  hailed 
his  return.  The  happiness  of  freedom  was  poisoned  now  that  he  could 
not  share  that  happiness  with  Erminia.  Melancholy,  and  despondent, 
he  hung  back  from  the  society  of  his  brother  officers ; he  forsook  his 
quarters  at  the  Sagittary,  only  repairing  thither  when  naval  and  mi1^ 
tary  discipline  demanded  his  attendance  ; and  resumed  his  old  lodgings, 
once  occupied  by  his  father  and  sister.  He  fed  his  grief  by  repeated 
visits  to  the  church  where  Erminia’s  remains  were  deposited;  an?  for 
some  time  her  image  solely  occupied  his  thoughts. 

On  a certain  evening,  returning  from  one  of  these  mournful  visits, 
his  gondola  was  gliding  through  one  of  the  quiet  canals  that  led  to  the 
quarter  where  his  humble  lodging  was  situated,  when  in  passing  near  to 
a fine  old  church  that  stood  there,  the  sound  of  the  organ  pealed  forth 
into  the  open  air,  and  made  him  give  a sign  to  the  boatman  to  pause. 

It  was  the  vesper  service.  Through  the  draperies  that  screened  the 
church-door,  came  the  volume  of  sound, — full,  sonorous,  solemn.  He 
remained  still  for  a few  seconds,  to  listen,  as  the  tones  came  floating 
upon  the  water,  and  mingling  with  the  rich  warm  breath  of  an  Italian 
sunset ; but  when  they  ceased,  he  could  not  resist  the  impulse  that  bade 
him  motion  the  boatman  to  row  to  the  shore,  upon  which  he  step  ^ed, 
ascending  the  few  marble  stairs  leading  to  the  church,  and  entered. 

As  he  gently  raised  the  heavy  curtain,  a flood  of  glowing  evening 
light  poured  into  the  quiet  sanctuary ; but  as  the  folds  fell,  after  admit- 
ting him,  the  cool  shadowy  stillness  of  the  place  was  restored.  A few 
dim  lights  burned  from  the  taT  wax  candles  on  the  altar  ; a faint  smell 
arose  from  the  flowers  that  filled  the  vases  which  decked  it ; the  organ 
was  hushed ; the  choristers  had  ceased  ; a few  devotees  knelt  here  and 
there  in  the  body  of  the  church ; while  the  officiating  high  priest,  with 
his  attendant  deacons  and  acolytes,  moved  to  and  fro  upon  the  altar  steps 
with  noiseless  feet,  performing  an  occasional  silent  genuflexion,  with  bend- 
ed head. 

Presently  the  organ  rolled  forth  in  its  swelling  majesty ; and  the 


352 


DESDEMONA  ! 


choral  voices  chanted,  u Magnificat  anima  mea  Dominum : Et  exidta • 
vit  spiritus  mens  in  Deo  salutari  meoP 

G-ratiano  sank  upon  his  knee  with  inclined  head  and  lowly  heart,  as 
he  reverently  crossed  himself ; and  as  his  soul  as  well  as  his  lips  echoed 
the  words,  his  spirit  owned  itself  elevated  and  strengthened, — if  not  re- 
joicing and  exultant,  by  reason  of  its  brotherly  sorrow.  Never,  since 
its  first  having  overtaken  him,  had  that  sorrow  been  so  assuaged, — so 
profoundly  relieved.  He  could  now  for  the  first  time  think  of  his  dead 
sister,  as  one  of  the  blest  in  heaven,  instead  of  fruitlessly  regretting  her 
loss  upon  earth. 

He  remained  thus  until  vespers  were  concluded  ; he  was  then  turning 
to  leave  the  quiet  church,  when  he  perceived  one  figure  still  kneeling 
there.  It  was  a lady,  attired  in  black,  and  closely  veiled  ; who  seemed 
so  completely  abstracted,  and  absorbed  in  her  private  devotions,  as  to  be 
unaware  that  every  one  else  was  retiring.  He  could  not  help  lingering 
a moment,  in  the  half-formed  hope  of  seeing  her  more  nearly  ; but  find- 
ing that  she  stirred  not,  he  felt  the  indelicacy  of  staying  to  watch  her, 
and  withdrew. 

He  was  surprised  to  find  that  the  remembrance  of  this  kneeling  figure 
aaunted  him  afterwards.  Though  so  completely  screened  by  her  dress 
and  veil,  there  was  something  that  promised  grace  and  dignity,  which 
made  him  wish  to  see  her  arise  and  move ; there  was  an  indescribable 
air  which  betokened  nobleness  and  beauty,  even  beneath  that  plain  black 
garb  ; and  he  could  not  help  feeling  an  interest  about  this  half-seen  lady, 
— for  lady,  he  was  convinced  she  was, — a restless,  inquisitive,  irresistible 
desire  to  know  more  of  her.  Who  has  not  felt  this  inexpressible,  yet 
invincible  attraction  towards  some  other  object  of  the  kind  at  some  time 
or  other? 

He  went  for  several  successive  days  to  the  same  church,  at  the  vesper 
hour  ; but  he  never  saw  her  there  again.  He  could  not  forbear  watching 
the  spot  where  she  had  knelt,  until  it  looked  so  empty,  and  so  mocking 
to  his  wishes,  that  he  could  have  believed  at  last,  he  must  have  seen  her 
there  only  in  imagination. 

But  once,  as  he  was  threading  the  busy  crowd  on  the  Bialto ; hap- 


THE  MAGNTFICO’S  CHILD. 


353 


pening  to  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  boats  that  were  gliding  on  the  grand 
canal  beneath  the  bridge,  one  gondola  among  them  attracted  his  attention, 
for,  as  it  shot  along,  he  caught  a glimpse  of  a female  figure  wrapped  in 
black,  which,  from  some  instantaneous  and  unaccountable  conviction, 
struck  him  as  being  the  same  he  had  seen  kneeling  in  the  church.  He 
ran  to  the  landing-place,  took  boat,  and  hurried  in  the  direction  which 
the  gondola  seemed  to  be  pursuing.  But  he  could  recover  no  traces  of 
it : phantom-like,  it  seemed  to  have  vanished. 

A day  or  two  afterwards,  as  he  lay  back  in  his  gondola,  musing  on 
the  figure  which  now  chiefly  occupied  his  thoughts,  he  saw  it,  for  an 
instant,  in  one  of  the  narrow  alleys  leading  up  from  the  canal,  along 
which  he  was  then  floating.  It  seemed  to  be  attended  by  another,  also 
darkly  clad  and  veiled.  He  saw  them  distinctly,  as  they  passed  on  through 
the  alley,  which  was  in  a poor  quarter  of  the  city,  but  in  which,  at  that 
hour,  there  were  not  many  people  about.  He  stopped  his  boatman  in 
haste,  bidding  him  land  there  ; but  not  before  the  gondola  had  passed  be- 
yond the  opening  of  the  alley.  By  the  time  the  boat  was  brought  to,  the 
figures  were  out  of  sight.  Gratiano  leaped  ashore,  and  sped  up  the  pas- 
sage at  a quick  pace  ; but  nothing  of  the  veiled  lady  or  her  companion 
could  he  see.  Whether  they  had  entered  a house,  or  whether  they  turned 
down  some  of  the  winding  alleys  tlSit  diverged  from  the  one  in  which  he 
had  seen  them,  he  could  not  determine ; but  certain  it  was,  they  were 
gone. 

On  the  following  morning,  he  fancied  he  was  nearer  to  his  hope  of 
tracking  the  black-robed  mystery.  He  saw  the  figure  he  now  knew  so 
well,  step  from  a gondola,  on  to  a landing  in  front  of  some  shabby -look- 
ing houses,  one  of  which  it  entered.  Ordering  his  boatman  to  draw  to 
the  landing,  where  lay  the  lady’s  gondola  awaiting  her  return,  Gratiano 
determined  to  await  it  also ; and  in  the  meantime  addressed  a few  words 
to  the  attendant  who  had  charge  of  the  boat.  He  was  a young  fellow, 
and  sat  in  a quiet  abstracted  way,  his  arms  folded,  and  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  door  through  which  his  mistress  had  disappeared,  ready  to  re- 
ceive her  the  moment  she  came  back. 

Gratiano  was  surprised  at  having  no  reply,  when  he  addressed  the 


354 


DESDEMONA  ; 


lady’s  gondolier ; he  repeated  his  appeal  in  a louder  tone,  hut  still  there 
was  neither  answer,  nor  token  that  he  had  been  heard.  Provoked  at  the 
unmoved  way  in  which  the  young  man  sat  there,  the  officer  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder  with  his  sheathed  sword,  exclaiming: — ■“  How  now,  fellow, 
is  this  sauciness  or  sulkiness,  that  I speak  twice  to  thee  civilly,  without 
a civil  answer  ?” 

The  young  boatman  turned  at  the  touch,  and  looked  in  the  face  of 
the  stranger ; but  only  shook  his  head,  and  resumed  his  former 
attitude. 

“ Per  Bacco ! The  fellow’s  airs  of  insolence  make  one  smile 
muttered  Gratiano,  half  laughing.  “ He  deigns  not  the  slightest  notice. 
He  affects  no  less  mystery  than  his  lady.  He  chooses  to  shroud  him- 
self in  this  silence  of  his,  as  she  does  in  her  black  muffles,  so  closely 
drawn  around  her.  She  seems  some  disguised  princess  of  Arabian 
story ; and  this,  forsooth,  is  her  mute, — her  dumb  slave,  doubtless.” 

While  Gratiano  was  debating  with  himself,  whether  or  no  he  should 
make  any  farther  attempt  to  force  the  young  gondolier  into  some 
explanation,  a vessel  containing  a party  of  brother  officers  came  by  ; 
who,  seeing  their  comrade,  hailed  him,  and  asked  him  to  go  with  them 
to  a grand  parade,  to  be  held  that  morning  in  the  Piazza  St.  Mark, 
whither  they  were  all  repairing.  He%eclined  ; but  they  persisted. 

“ What  dost  thou  do  here,  Gratiano  ? loitering  away  the  gayest  hours 
of  the  day?  Come  with  us,  man.  All  the  world  will  be  at  St.  Mark’s 
— all  the  Venice  world — her  proudest  nobles — her  brightest  ladies. 
Nay,  an’  the  promise  of  beholding  fairest  women  do  not  lure  thee,  it 
must  be  something  of  weight  indeed  detains  thee,”  said  one,  a hand- 
some young  Florentine. 

“ What  if  it  be  some  one  woman  still  fairer  than  any  of  those  thou 
promisest  him  sight  of,  that  keeps  him  here?”  said  another  of  the 
officers  with  a sly  and  somewhat  sarcastic  laugh  ; “ methinks  he  has  the 
right  lover’s  look ; shily  skulking  here  by  himself,  as  if  in  pursuit  of 
some  hopeful  assignation.” 

“ Is  it  so,  i’faith?  And  have  we  caught  the  sober-seeming  Gratiano? 
Do  we  find  him  to  be  no  better  than  one  of  ourselves;  a ruffling  gallant? 


THE  MAGNIFICo’s  CHILD. 


3 55 


Marry,  it  may  be  so  indeed ; for  now  I bethink  me,  this  place  bears  none 
of  the  best  character,”  said  the  young  Florentine  officer,  glancing  at 
the  houses,  with  a smile,  and  a light  look. 

“ It  seems,  you  know  their  repute ; and  haply,  by  experience,  know 
too,  that  it  is  well-founded retorted  he  who  had  laughed  sarcastically 
before,  and  now  did  so  again.  “ If  they  are  haunts  of  yours,  it  is  odds, 
but  we  are  right  in  our  suspicion  of  its  being  some  gallant  adventure 
which  detains  our  friend  from  us.” 

“ Have  with  you,  gentlemen  !”  exclaimed  Gratiano,  eager  to  see  them 
gone  from  the  spot ; and  finding  there  were  no  other  means  of  ridding 
himself  of  their  importunity,  than  by  accompanying  them. 

When,  however,  he  contrived  to  escape  from  their  society,  and 
returned  in  all  haste  to  the  spot,  he  found,  as  he  had  expected,  the 
lady,  the  gondola,  the  dumb  attendant,  all  flown.  Nevertheless,  he  con- 
soled himself  with  the  circumstance  that  she  had  not  made  her  reappear- 
ance while  the  party  of  officers  were  there ; as  he  felt,  that  the  chance 
of  her  being  compromised,  would  have  been  far  worse  to  him  than  the 
present  disappointment. 

For  some  days,  he  saw  nothing  of  the  incognita.  He  tried  to  take 
more  interest  in  the  pursuits  of  his  brother  officers,  and  to  make  himself 
more  companionable  among  them,  than  he  had  felt  able  to  do,  in  the 
first  sorrow  of  learning  his  sister’s  death.  The  party  of  young  men  who 
had  urged  him  to  join  them  that  morning,  were  not  precisely  brother 
officers  of  his,  they  being  in  the  military  service,  and  he  in  the  naval 
service  of  Venice;  but  he  had  frequently  met  them,  and  their  frank 
soldierly  gaiety  and  ease  led  to  some  comradeship.  They  were  now  full 
of  the  expected  advent  of  their  general,  the  warlike  Othello,  a noble 
Moor,  high  in  the  confidence  and  employ  of  the  Venetian  state. 

He  had  been  engaged  on  their  behalf  in  the  long-protracted  warfare 
against  the  Turks  ; but  this  had  lately  terminated  in  a glorious  action 
wherein  the  arms  of  Venice  had  been  triumphantly  successful,  and 
which  it  was  expected  would  put  a stop  to  hostilities  for  some  time 
to  come. 

Great  preparations  were  making  to  receive  the  Moorish  general  with 


356 


DESDEMONA  ; 


the  honors  due  to  one  who  had  achieved  such  accumulated  renown  to  the 
state;  and  his  officers, — who  had  preceded  him  to  Venice,  by  a short 
period,  during  which  he  staid  behind  with  one  or  two  others  to  settle 
some  private  affairs  that  required  his  personal  inspection, — were  among 
those  who  expected  his  arrival  with  the  greatest  eagerness.  In  all  this, 
Gratiano  took  the  natural  interest  belonging  to  his  profession ; besides 
that  which  he  did  his  best  to  muster  for  the  sake  of  being  sociable  with 
his  comrades,  whose  thoughts  ran  upon  nothing  else.  But  his  own,  do 
what  he  would,  often  reverted  to  the  veiled  lady,  whom  he  had  met  so 
singularly  and  so  frequently,  and  of  whom  he  had  learned  so  little. 

About  this  time,  he  bethought  him  of  a charge  he  had  undertaken 
for  a veteran  sailor  who  had  been  killed  in  an  engagement  fought  on 
board  that  ship  which  had  brought  himself  home.  The  old  man  had 
been  cut  down,  while  fighting  at  the  side  of  Gratiano  ; and  lay  weltering 
in  his  blood,  until  victory  proclaimed,  gave  the  officer  an  opportunity  of 
raising  him  in  his  arms,  and  seeing  to  his  wounds.  The  old  mariner, 
who  knew  he  was  dying,  besought  Gratiano  to  waste  no  more  time  in 
looking  to  hurts  that  were  mortal ; but  if  he  wished  to  do  him  good,  he 
said,  he  could  do  it  far  more  effectually  by  taking  charge  of  some  money 
- — his  hoarded  pay — which  he  wished  to  send  to  his  only  son,  in  Venice. 
The  dying  man,  pointing  to  the  neckerchief  around  his  throat,  as  a sign 
that  money  was  secreted  there,  gasped  a few  words — the  name  of  a 
Venetian  alley — the  name  of  his  boy,  who  he  said  was  sickly,  and  full 
of  sickly  fancies,  and  whose  heart  was  set  upon  being  a painter ; and 
then  he  rambled  off  into  an  unintelligible  murmur  about  the  foolish  lad, 
who  let  his  head  run  upon  Titian,  and  Giorgione,  and  other  daubers 
upon  land — when  there  was  far  finer  colouring  to  be  seen  abroad  on  the 
green  sea,  and  along  her  shores,  than  upon  any  canvas  that  was  ever 
daubed ; but  the  lad  was  sickly — too  sickly  for  sea,  he  supposed,  and 
there  an  end ; with  which,  his  words  broke  off  into  a gurgle,  and  he  fell 
dead  on  the  deck. 

Gratiano,  reproaching  himself  for  having  so  long  neglected  the  fulfil- 
ment of  this  charge,  now  set  out  determined  to  seek  the  young  artist, 
and  to  deliver  his  father’s  dying  bequest. 


THE  MAGNIEICO’S  CHILD. 


357 


He  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  alley  the  old  man  had  named ; 
and  after  a few  inquiries,  he  found  that  in  one  of  its  houses  the  sailor’s 
son  still  lodged.  He  was  preparing  to  enter,  when  his  attention  was  at- 
tracted towards  a gondola,  which  lay  near,  and  which  he  knew  to  he  the 
mysterious  lady’s,  by  perceiving  that  within  it  sat  her  silent  attendant, 
in  precisely  the  same  attitude  as  before — his  arms  folded,  and  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  door,  whence  he  expected  his  mistress  to  appear. 

Gratiano  had  scarcely  made  this  observation,  ere  the  lady  herself 
came  forth  from  the  house  he  had  been  seeking.  She  advanced  hastily 
towards  the  landing,  as  shunning  observation  ; but  just  as  she  approach- 
ed it, — ere  she  was  within  reach  of  her  attendant’s  arm  extended  to  her 
aid, — her  foot  slipped,  and  she  might  have  fallen,  had  it  not  been  that 
Gratiano,  who  stood  close  by,  proffered  timely  support.  It  was  so  re- 
spectfully as  well  as  so  firmly  and  earnestly  given,  and  withal  so  oppor- 
tunely, that  the  lady  could  do  no  less  than  accept  and  acknowledge  the 
attention,  which  she  did  with  a curtsey  full  of  modest  dignity.  Two 
eyes  like  stars,  turned  towards  him  for  a moment  from  beneath  the  black 
velvet  of  her  mask;  the  slight  motion  of  a pair  of  lips  through  its 
mouth-piece  was  perceptible,  while  a murmured,  “ Thanks,  signior  just 
reached  his  ear,  and  the  next  instant,  she  had  stepped  into  her  gondola, 
and  was  gone. 

He  stood  watching  the  vessel  as  it  swept  away,  leaving  a watery 
track  in  its  wake,  but  he  saw  nothing  save  the  white  hand  that  suddenly 
appeared  from  beneath  the  black  folds,  as  she  strove  to  save  herself  from 
falling,  the  star-like  eyes,  the  lips  that  formed  those  gracious  words,  the 
bending  yet  dignified  form,  the  whole  figure  of  lady-like  grace  and 
gentleness  as  it  stood  lately  beside  him.  Then  came  self-contemptuous 
thoughts  of  his  folly  to  indulge  in  such  reveries.  The  contrast  that  his 
own  weather-beaten,  sun-burned  face, — lined  and  marked  with  the  traces 
which  captivity,  wandering,  and  all  the  hardships  of  a seafaring  existence 
had  left, — presented  with  the  evidences  of  youth  and  freshness  which 
distinguished  this  lady-vision ; the  shy  retirement  of  his  manners,  unfit- 
ted by  a sailor  life  for  those  graces  which  should  win  womanly  favor  ; 
all  pressed  upon  him  as  so  many  reasons  against  allowing  his  imagina- 


358 


DESDEMONA  J 


tion  to  dwell  upon  youthful  beauty,  such  as  he  felt  hers  to  be.  “ Why, 
these  very  hairs  of  mine,  dulled  and  mingled  as  they  are,  should  warn 
me,  from  such  wild,  such  miserable  delusion,  as  feeding  my  fancy  with 
her  image  ! ” 

With  a smile  of  self-mockery,  he  turned  away,  and  was  about  to  enter 
the  house  he  sought ; when  his  thoughts  again  reverted  to  the  theme,  in 
shape  of  the  question  which  had  so  often  presented  itself : — “ Who  can 
she  be  ? What  is  her  object  in  these  mysterious  perambulations  ? I 
see  her  first,  in  church,  kneeling,  lost  in  prayer  ; but  I afterwards  behold 
her  entering  a house  of  questionable  fame,  I see  her  walking  in  an 
obscure  alley,  attended  only  by  another  woman,  I find  her  coming  from 
the  abode  of  squalor  and  neglect — yet  wherever  I meet  her,  there  is  an 
air  of  purity  and  nobleness  invests  herself,  that  proclaims  her  a being  of 
another  sphere  than  those  she  haunts.  Who,  and  what,  is  she  9” 

A second  time  checking  his  thoughts  upon  the  subject  which  so 
perplexed  and  interested  him,  he  went  into  the  dwelling  (which  was  a 
lodging  of  the  meanest  description,  where  the  extreme  of  indigence  alone 
would  choose  to  harbour),  and  found  his  way  to  the  upper  story,  occupied 
by  the  young  artist.  The  door  stood  ajar,  and  Grratiano  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  looking  into  the  room,  ere  he  entered.  The  whole  appearance 
was  that  of  poverty,  and  utmost  need ; but  the  look  on  the  face  of  its 
sole  occupant  showed  its  wants  were  scarce  perceived,  its  bareness  hardly 
felt,  in  the  absorbed  contemplation  and  pursuit  of  that  Art  which  to  him 
supplied  the  place  of  aught  else  upon  Earth,  and  raised  him  to  a Heaven 
of  happiness  in  its  all-sufficing  self.  The  sick  lad  had  risen  from  his 
truckle  bed,  and  was  standing  before  his  easel,  brush  and  pallette  in 
hand,  intently  sketching  in  a figure  upon  the  canvas ; while  on  his  wan 
face  there  sat  an  expression  of  entranced  interest — of  almost  radiant 
delight.  His  body  was  emaciated,  his  cheek  was  hollow,  his  eye  sunken, 
his  hands  were  thin  and  trembling ; but  they  trembled  with  eagerness 
as  well  as  with  weakness,  and  his  eyes  gleamed  with  the  fire  of  artistic 
excitement,  as  well  as  with  fever  and  famine. 

Grratiano  softly  approached ; but  what  was  his  surprise,  on  com- 
ing within  view  of  the  picture  upon  the  easel,  to  perceive  that  it 


THE  MAGNIFICCrS  CHILD. 


359 


was  no  other  than  a sketch  of  the  lady  in  black,  who  so  occupied  his 
thoughts. 

A slight  and  involuntary  exclamation  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
young  painter ; and  then  Grratiano  hastened  to  account  for  his  appear- 
ance, by  fulfilling  the  object  which  had  brought  him  thither.  After  he 
had  duly  delivered  the  request  of  the  veteran  sailor,  and  satisfied  all  the 
filial  interrogation  which  his  story  brought  forth,  he  alluded  to  the  sketch 
upon  which  the  young  artist  was  at  work. 

u It  is  an  attempt  I have  made  to  represent  an  angel ;”  said  the 
young  man,  with  enthusiasm.  u You  smile,”  continued  he,  “ to  see  black 
robes,  veil,  and  mask,  instead  of  the  white  flowing  raiment,  the  wings, 
the  unshadowed  countenance  that  embody  our  usual  conception  of  an- 
gelic beings.  But  the  angel  I have  here  sought  to  depict,  is  one  of  those 
permitted  to  visit  Earth — a gracious,  a benign,  a gentle-hearted  woman. 
A spirit  of  beneficence,  kindness,  consolation,  who  brings  help  and  heal- 
ing in  her  hand,  charity  in  her  heart,  tenderness  in  her  eyes, — whose 
feet  are  guided  by  pity,  and  whose  wings  are  those  of  holiness  and  good- 
ness. She  came  but  now,  hither ; and  I have  tried  to  fasten  my  impres- 
sion of  her  presence  upon  the  canvas.” 

“ Some  charitable  mortal  lady,  you  would  say,  who  visits  the  sick 
and  the  afflicted?”  rejoined  Grratiano  eagerly.  “ Do  you  not  know  who 
she  is  ? Have  you  never  seen  her  otherwise  than  thus  veiled  and 
masked  ? 

“ I never  saw  her  at  all  until  to-day ;”  replied  the  artist.  “ I heard 
of  a kind  gentlewoman  who  brought  assistance  to  an  unhappy  fellow- 
lodger  of  mine,  a widow,  with  two  sick  children.  This  poor  widow  has 
taken  a sort  of  motherly  interest  in  me,  because  she  fancies  I look 
weakly  and  hectic,  as  she  tells  me ; and  lately,  in  her  neighbourliness, 
she  came  to  my  room,  to  put  it  a little  in  order,  and  do  a few  house- 
wifely matters  for  me  that  she  thought  I needed,  kind  soul,  and  then 
she  told  me  how  a strange  lady  had  suddenly  come  to  see  her ; how  she 
had  brought  medicines  and  clothing  for  the  little  ones,  how  she  had 
given  relief  and  assistance  to  herself,  and  how  she  came  always  alone, 
always  closely  veiled,  and  always  in  plain  black.  And  then  the  widow 


360 


DESDEMONA  ] 


went  on  to  say,  that  for  all  her  plain  dress,  and  her  being  without 
attendants,  and  her  keeping  so  closely  masked  and  muffled,  she  was  very 
sure  she  was  a high  lady  and  a virtuous  lady — for  that  she  spoke  in  a 
low  soft  voice,  and  had  a manner  all  gentleness  and  kindness,  and  one 
of  the  whitest  as  well  as  the  lightest  hands  that  ever  raised  a poor  sick 
child’s  head,  or  touched  its  aching  limbs.” 

“ To-day,”  continued  the  young  painter,  “ I had  myself  an  opportu- 
nity of  judging  how  correctly  my  widow-woman  had  described  the  soft 
voice  and  the  white  hand ; for  in  her  neighbourly  zeal,  my  poor  friend 
brought  her  benefactor  to  see  me,  with  some  of  the  usual  hints  abont 
hectic,  and  fever,  and  over-work  ; but  the  veiled  lady,  with  a delicacy 
that  seems  native  to  her,  as  well  as  indicative  of  high-bred  nobleness, 
spoke  of  my  beloved  Art,  professed  herself  pleased  with  the  attempts  I 
have  made  in  it,  and  ordered  a picture,  leaving  the  choice  of  subject  to 
myself.  I have  already  conceived  one,  which  I shall  submit  to  her,  on 
'her  next  visit ; but  meantime,  I could  not  resist  the  temptation  I felt  to 
make  this  sketch  of  herself  from  memory,  for  my  own  delight.” 

G-ratiano  felt  just  as  strong  a temptation,  to  offer  the  painter  his  own 
price  for  the  sketch ; but,  considering  that  it  would  be  unfair  to  deprive 
him  of  what  possessed  so  paramount  a value  in  his  eyes,  as  well  as  his 
own,  asked  him  if  he  would  paint  him  a duplicate,  as  he  had  taken  a 
‘fancy  to  the  subject ; and  after  a little  farther  conversation,  and  a 
promise  to  come  and  see  him  again  in  a few  days,  the  officer  took  his 
leave. 

When,  however,  at  the  end  of  those  few  days,  he  returned  to  the 
young  artist’s  lodging,  Gratiano  found  that  the  widow-neighbour  had 
only  too  truly  discerned  the  fatal  hectic  and  fever  of  overstrained  thought, 
and  overwrought  exertion,  together  with  that  of  inanition  ; he  learned, 
that  the  young  painter  had  been  seized  with  a rapid  and  mortal  illness 
which  ended  his  existence  in  the  course  of  a few  hours  ; and  that,  dying, 
he  had  desired  to  have  the  sketch  of  the  angel  in  black,  and  one  other 
favorite  picture,  buried  with  him. 

And  now  took  place  the  event  to  which  all  Venice  had  been  eagerly 


THE  MAGNIFICo’S  CHILD. 


361 


looking  forward.  The  Moorish  captain,  Othello,  general  in  the  army  of 
the  Venetian  state,  made  his  entry  into  the  city.  He  was  received  from 
on  hoard  his  galley,  by  the  duke  himself,  and  all  the  members  of  the 
senate.  There  was  a public  entertainment  given  in  the  open  air,  in  St. 
Mark’s  place,  at  which  the  magnificos,  the  chief  families,  the  most  dis- 
tinguished members  of  illustrious  houses,  and  all  the  highest  nobility  of 
Venice  were  present,  to  welcome  with  due  honor,  the  return  of  the 
victorious  warrior. 

In  virtue  of  his  naval  rank,  Gratiano  was  one  of  the  guests.  In  all 
that  fair  assemblage,  as  may  be  supposed,  the  individual  who  most 
attracted  his  attention,  was  the  valiant  Moor,  Othello.  He  was  curious 
to  behold  a man  of  whom  he  had  heard  so  much,  but  whom,  as  yet,  it 
happened,  he  had  never  seen.  He  had  heard  of  him  at  Rhodes,  Aleppo, 
Cyprus,  and  other  places,  where  his  vicissitudes  in  the  service  of  his 
country  had  taken  him  ; and  everywhere  he  had  heard  the  general 
spoken  of  with  one  accord,  as  truly  noble,  an  accomplished  soldier,  a 
skilful  commander,  an  honorable  man,  high  in  virtue  as  in  renown.  All 
that  he  now  saw  of  the  man’s  bearing  went  to  confirm  the  character 
which  fame  had  given  him.  He  seemed  noble  among  nobles;  distin- 
guished among  the  distinguished ; honorable  among  the  honored  ; full 
of  dignity  among  the  dignified  ; and  worthy  of  the  high  regard  paid  to 
him  by  the  highest  personages  there.  By  the  side  of  even  ducal  magni- 
ficence, and  senatorial  greatness,  he  looked  princely  and  majestic, — 
heroic  in  soul,  as  in  achievement. 

Next  to  the  Moor,  there  was  another  person  who  chiefly  interested 
Gratiano.  This  was  the  senator,  Brabantio ; his  brother-in-law.  With 
what  a contrariety  of  emotion  did  he  once  more  look  upon  the  man,  who 
had  played  so  conspicuous  a part  in  his  family  history.  With  what 
mingled  sadness  and  pity  did  he  look  upon  the  face  once  so  handsome, 
so  fiery,  so  animated,  which  had  won  the  heart  of  his  sister  Erminia, 
now  worn,  and  thoughtful,  with  a furrowed  brow,  and  a contracted  lip  ; 
the  hair,  once  bright  and  thick,  now  thinned,  and  greyish ; the  frame, 
before  so  erect,  alert, — so  full  of  energy  of  will  and  action,  now  some- 
what bent,  and  enfeebled.  Years  had  left  their  traces  upon  the  haughty 


362 


DESDEMONA  ! 


nobleman.  At  the  thought,  that  it  might  be  regret  for  Erminia,  which 
had  helped  to  effect  this  change  in  the  person  of  her  husband,  her 
brother  felt  that  he  could  forgive  him  all  the  pain  he  had  caused,  and 
that  he  could  now  clasp  his  hand  in  friendship  and  fellowship.  He 
resolved  in  his  heart,  that  he  would  ere  long  do  this ; that  he  would  seek 
Brabantio  in  his  own  house,  and  for  his  own  sake,  as  he  had  formerly 
shunned  the  house  on  his  account.  He  would  be  friends  with  that  man 
who  had  loved  Erminia  faithfully  ; and  would  mourn  her  with  him  in 
kindness  and  sincere  affection.  Henceforth,  they  should  be  brothers. 

There  was  another  motive  too,  that  drew  Gratiano’s  heart  towards 
him.  Beside  the  magnifico  sat  a young  lady  of  exquisite  beauty,  who,  he 
felt  could  be  no  other  than  Erminia’s  child, — that  same  babe  whose  birth 
he  had  witnessed,  whose  first  breath  had  been  drawn  amid  so  much  of 
anxiety  and  agitation. 

How  strange  it  seemed,  that  the  little  infant  he  remembered,  and 
that  beauteous  maid  before  him,  were  one  and  the  same  being ; and  yet 
how  ineffably  precious  was  the  sight  of  her,  thus  grown  into  such  con- 
summate grace  and  loveliness.  What  joy  it  would  be  to  know  her  and 
to  love  her,  for  her  mother’s  sake,  and  for  her  own. 

“ And  that  supremely  beautiful  creature  is  my  niece — my  own  niece !” 
was  the  thought  that  continued  to  fill  him  with  pride  and  joy  as  he  look- 
ed upon  her. 

11  You  are  fascinated,  signior,  by  the  beauty  of  the  lady  Desdemona, 
signior  Brabantio’s  daughter  said  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  happened 
to  be  close  beside  Gratiano,  and  observed  the  direction  in  which  his 
gaze  was  fixed.  u She  certainly  looks  transcendently  lovely  to-day  in 
that  satin  robe  of  virginal  white,  and  with  those  orient  pearls  hanging 
upon  throat  and  arms  not  less  pure  in  hue  than  themselves.  I don’t 
wonder  at  your  admiration ; it  is  shared  by  us  all ; young  or  old,  it  is 
just  the  same  ; we  can  none  of  us  resist  the  charm  of  her  beauty.  The 
young  fellows,  of  course,  are  all  mad  for  her — it  is  the  privilege  of  their 
age  to  be  as  insane  as  they  please  on  the  chapter  of  woman’s  beauty. 
And  as  for  us  old  fellows — but  I beg  pardon,  signior ; I ought  not,  per- 
haps, to  rank  you  among  the  grey-beards.” 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


363 


“ And  yet  the  grizzled  hue  of  mine,  bespeaks  me  far  on  my  way 
towards  a claim  to  the  honor remarked  Gratiano  with  a smile ; and 
touching  his  chin,  as  he  spoke. 

“Well  then,  signior,  since  you  allow  yourself  to  be  a candidate  for 
those  dubious  delights,  the  respects  and  dignities  of  age — ah,  one  hour 
of  disregarded  youth,  is,  I fear,  in  truth,  worth  the  whole  of  their  glory  ! 

• — but,  since  you  allow  yourself  to  be  no  longer  young,  we  may  cry 
cousinship  in  regret,  and  condole  with  each  other  on  being  beyond  the 
hope  of  swelling  the  train  of  the  lady  Desdemona’s  admirers.” 

“ Nay,  admirers,  even  adorers,  we  may  be,  though  at  humble  and 
age-stricken  distance  answered  Gratiano,  humouring  the  old  gentle- 
man’s playfulness  ; “ but  as  to  wooers  or  suitors,  many  reasons  would 
prevent  our  aspiring  to  swell  her  train  of  those,  I fancy.  Her  father’s 
pride  of  birth,  for  instance,  would  be  one  serious  obstacle,  doubtless,  to 
a poor  sailor  like  myself,  who  has  nothing  but  his  officer’s  pay,  and  his 
good  sword,  to  entitle  him  even  to  approach  the  magnifico  and  his 
daughter.” 

u c Her  father’s  pride  V 0,  ay,  signior  Brabantio  has  pride,  assured- 
ly ; he  has  already  refused  many  worthy  gentlemen  his  daughter’s  hand, 
on  the  score  of  lacking  blood  worthy  to  mingle  with  his.  There  is  poor 
signior  Boderigo ; that  lackadaisical-looking  gentleman,  yonder,  in  the 
pale  blue  doublet,  with  the  huge  roses  in  his  shoes ; him,  I mean,  with 
the  small  eyes  close  together,  and  the  sandy  eye-lashes  and  beard ; well, 
he,  poor  gentleman,  is  past  cure  in  love  with  the  lady  Desdemona ; and 
no  longer  ago  than  last  week,  it  is  said,  her  father  forbade  him  the 
house,  because  he  had  the  audacity  to  make  proposals  of  marriage  to  the 
magnifico’s  daughter,  in  despite  of  the  sinister  bend  in  his  escutcheon  ; 
but,  in  my  opinion,  he  has  one  far  graver  objection  than  his  mean  birth 
— he  has  a mean  soul — a poor,  silly,  worthless,  characterless  character ; 
and  that  alone  ought  to  preclude  his  wooing  and  winning  such  a creature  as 
the  beauteous  Desdemona,  who  is  as  good  and  high-minded  as  she  is  fair. 

“ And  does  she  herself  appear  to  favor  any  among  this  large  train  of 
which  you  speak  ? Is  it  said  that  she  has  yet  shown  a preference  for 
any  suitor  above  the  rest  ?”  asked  Gratiano. 


364 


DESDEMONA  ; 


“ On  the  contrary,  she  seems  averse  from  marriage,  and  has  encour- 
aged no  one  of  the  numerous  gentlemen  who  have  hitherto  paid  their 
addresses.  Her  father  does  not  urge  her  to  select  a husband  ; and  no 
wonder  he  is  not  in  a hurry  to  part  with  his  only  child, — and  such  a 
child.  But  I have  my  own  private  reasons  for  believing,”  continued  the 
old  gentleman,  with  that  confidential  lowering  of  the  voice,  peculiar  to 
persons  of  his  gossiping  predilection,  “ that  signior  Brabantio  secretly 
cherishes  a wish  of  eventually  bringing  about  a match,  between  his 
daughter  and  her  cousin,  signior  Ludovico  ; that  handsome  cavalier, 
there,  speaking  to  the  lady  in  the  green  mantle,  with  the  diamonds  and 
emeralds  among  her  hair,  and  the  snowy  plume.  It  is  whispered,  that 
that  very  lady  would  give  the  worth  of  every  jewel  she  possesses,  twenty 
times  told,  could  she  hope  to  win  his  love  to  herself ; but  I rather  think, 
neither  the  wealth  and  passion  of  the  lady  Grinevra,  nor  the  beauty  and 
excellence  of  the  lady  Desdemona,  will  ever  tempt  signior  Ludovico  to 
fall  in  love  with  the  one  or  the  other.  He  is  too  intensely  conscious  of 
his  own  merits,  ever  to  affection  any  body  half  so  well  as  his  own  sweet 
person ; too  cold-blooded  and  cautious,  ever  to  commit  the  indiscretion 
of  seeking  his  happiness  at  the  hands  of  any  one,  save  from  his  all-suffi- 
cing self.” 

“But  see,  there  is  a stir  among  the  group  yonder;”  said  the  old 
gentleman,  interrupting  himself,  to  note  what  was  passing.  “ The  duke 
is  presenting  the  general  to  some  of  his  particular  friends  among  the 
magnates  of  the  state.  Now  he  approaches  signior  Brabantio,  and 
introduces  the  valiant  Moor  to  him,  and  to  his  fair  daughter.  With 
what  a modest  sweetness  she  curtsies.  No  wonder  the  general  looks 
upon  her  with  such  eyes  of  admiration.  I told  you  so ; we  all  do ; — 
young  or  old — soldier  or  civilian — native  or  foreigner — fair  or  dark — 
it’s  all  one ; and  the  Moor,  for  all  his  swarthy  cheek,  and  his  warlike 
visage, — that  has  seen  many  a stormy  year  of  siege  and  bloodshed, 
I take  it — hath  yet  a fire  in  his  gaze  that  shows  neither  years  nor  wars 
have  blinded  him  to  the  beauties  of  a fair  Venetian  lady,  when  she 
stands  before  him  in  her  full  perfection,  as  she  now  does  in  the  person 
of  the  divine  Desdemona.  See  sir,  I beseech  you  ” went  on  the  old 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


365 


gentleman,  “ with  what  a winning  grace  she  stands  by  her  father’s  side, 
the  unconscious  mark  of  every  eye-shot,  the  theme  of  every  tongue,  the 
observed  and  admired  of  all  beholders ; yet  how  serene,  how  self  possess- 
ed, in  her  gentle  innocence  and  unconsciousness  she  remains ; the 
general  seems  addressing  some  words  of  courtesy  to  her ; and  mark 
how  lady-like  her  ease,  how  maidenly  her  attitude,  as  she  listens.  She 
is  the  magnifico’s  child  in  her  gracious  air  of  beauty  and  dignity,  while 
she  might  be  a cotter’s  daughter  for  the  meek  propriety,  the  adorable 
gentleness,  .which,  above  all  else,  distinguishes  her.  You  will  smile  at 
my  raptures,  signior ; but  in  truth,  the  lady  Desdemona  is  worthy  of  all 
enthusiasm.” 

“ I doubt  it  not,  believe  me,  signior;”  replied  Gratiano;  “it  needs  but 
look  upon  her  to  read  the  simple  justice  of  your  words,  however  high 
their  extolment.  The  lady  is  indeed  a rare  creature.” 

And  once  more  he  repeated  within  himself — “and  she  is  my  niece — 
Erminia’s  child — my  own  niece  !” 

His  eagerness  to  claim  affinity  with  her,  however,  yielded  to  his  dis- 
inclination to  do  it  on  so  public  an  occasion  as  the  present.  He  resolved 
to  content  himself  with  gazing  upon  her  from  a distance,  as  a stranger, 
for  to-day;  but  on  the  morrow  he  promised  himself, he  would  indemnify 
his  patience  under  the  delay,  by  seeking  her  and  her  father  so  early 
and  so  quietly,  as  should  ensure  to  their  meeting  all  the  affectionate 
unreserve  of  privacy. 

But  tha4,  same  night,  some  hours  after  the  entertainment  was  over, 
Gratiano,  unable  to  sleep,  in  the  interest  of  the  anticipation,  and  wake- 
ful with  many  conflicting  emotions  of  remembrance  and  present  fancy, 
went  out  alone  upon  the  lagunes,  that  the  calm  of  the  waters;  the  cool 
breeze  of  night,  the  placid  light  of  the  moon,  might  help  to  tranquilize 
his  mood  of  thought.  On  returning  to  the  city,  at  a late  hour,  as  he 
passed  through  one  of  the  smaller  canals,  a boat  approached  his  own ; 
four  men,  armed  and  masked,  leaped  out  upon  him,  and  before  he  was 
aware  of  their  purpose,  mastered  him,  bound,  gagged,  and  blindfolded 
him,  and  then  forced  him  into  their  boat,  which  they  proceeded  to  push 
in  silence  from  the  spot.  Not  many  minutes  elasped  before  the  motion. 


366 


DESDEMONA  I 


of  the  vessel  ceased,  and  then  Gratiano  found  that  they  were  leading  him 
forwards.  But  when  he  was  guided  to  the  edge  of  the  boat,  and  forced 
to  get  out,  instead  of  having  to  mount  the  steps  of  a landing-place,  he 
felt  that  he  was  conducted  down  some  stairs  ; and,  from  this  circum- 
stance, as  well  as  from  the  peculiar  damp,  oppressive,  earthy  smell  of 
the  air  he  breathed,  he  gathered  that  he  was  entering  some  subterranean 
passage.  Then  he  heard  the  application  of  a key — the  withdrawing  of 
bolts — the  grating  of  a heavy  door,  through  which  he  seemed  to  pass ; 
then  came  a silent  unbinding  of  his  arms ; and  then,  the  withdrawal  of 
the  bandage  from  his  eyes : but  he  could  see  none  the  better  for  this  ; 
all  was  pitch  dark;  there  was  the  breathing  of  the  men  near  him — there 
were  their  hands  busy  about  him,  unfastening  the  ligatures  from  his 
arms,  and  the  folds  from  his  eyes;  but  he  could  distinguish  nothing  else 
through  the  gloom  and  silence.  The  moment  the  gag  was  removed  from 
his  mouth,  he  burst  into  a torrent  of  questions ; but  amid  the  unbroken 
stillness  which  was  the  sole  answer  he  received,  his  own  voice  sounded 
strangely ; the  echos  of  its  abrupt  vehemence  rang  out,  then  died  away, 
as  he  felt  the  men  withdraw  from  around  him,  and  then  heard  the 
re-closing  of  the  heavy  grating  door,  succeeded  by  the  turning  of  the 
key,  and  drawing  of  the  bolts  once  again,  which  told  him  he  was  now 
alone. 

Thus  suddenly  and  inexplicably  deprived  of  his  liberty,  plunged  into 
a dark  and  solitary  dungeon,  the  whole  seemed  one  of  those  perplexing 
dreams  that  oppress  us  with  a sense  of  bewilderment  and  unreality  even 
while  enacting  them  in  sleep  ; but  from  such  dreams  morning  awakening 
relieves  us,  while  in  this  one,  there  was  throughout  a palpability,  a force 
of  circumstance,  that  pressed  upon  Gratiano  but  too  strongly  all  along 
that  it  was  fact  and  no  vision,  strange  as  it  seemed. 

The  stories  he  had  heard,  of  men  mysteriously  made  away  with,  for 
a whim  of  state  policy;  the  secret  system  of  the  Venetian  tribunal;  the 
dark  deeds  which  it  was  whispered  the  irresponsibility  of  the  senate’s 
despotism  suffered  itself  to  use — with  the  weal  of  Venice  as  its  avowed 
object ; ail  now  came  into  Gratiano’s  mind,  and  he  could  scarcely  doubt 
but  he  was  one  of  these  same  victims  to  the  authorized  tyranny,  which 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


367 


made  sinister  accusation  and  arrest,  summary  condemnation  and  execu- 
tion, a right  of  rule. 

“ And  am  I indeed  destined  to  behold  never  again  the  light  of  the 
sun,  the  face  of  my  fellow-man,  the  glories  of  earth  and  sky  and  sea  ? 
Never  more  to  draw  the  breath  of  freedom?  Am  I indeed  to  be  cut  off 
thus  in  the  midst  of  life?  To  be  snatched  from  existence  ; thrust  apart 
to  linger  in  daily  death  ; or  perchance,  to  be  led  forthwith  across  that 
fatal  bridge,  where  the  breath  of  doomed  wretches  has  exhaled  in  anguish 
so  profound,  as  to  have  eternized  a name  of  sighs  and  misery ; and  then, 
the  dark  cell,  the  midnight  strangling,  the  sack  dragged  forth  through 
the  low  portal,  the  plunge  into  the  funereal  waters.  And  this  fate — is 
it  indeed  to  be  mine  ?” 

Such  were  involuntarily  some  of  the  suggestions  that  presented  them- 
selves to  Gratiano’s  mind,  as  he  revolved  the  sudden  change  that  had 
come  upon  him.  A few  hours  since,  a guest  at  the  feast  where  all  the 
most  illustrious  and  renowned  among  his  countrymen  were  convened ; a 
free  wanderer  on  the  broad  waters  of  his  birth-place,  unimpeded,  un- 
challenged, at  liberty  to  go  whithersoever  he  might  think  fit ; and  now, 
what  a contrast ! Immured  in  a dungeon,  left  in  unexplained  silence 
and  darkness,  exposed  to  an  indefinite  period  of  captivity,  or  to  possible 
death. 

While  these  bitter  thoughts  succeeded,  in  wearing,  ceaseless,  circle, 
and  with  all  that  harassing  activity  of  recurrence  which  it  is  impossible 
to  resist  under  like  emergencies  of  sudden  and  inexplicable  event,  Gra- 
tiano  heard  a bolt  drawn  back,  as  if  by  a stealthy  hand ; then  another ; 
then  the  key  tried,  and  unlocked ; then  the  door  pushed  slowly  open ; 
and  then  in  the  space  it  left,  stood  a figure  he  well  knew. 

He  recognized  it  instantly,  though  it  was  revealed  only  by  the  light 
of  a small  lamp,  carried  in  the  hand. 

It  was  the  lady  in  black.  She  was  closely  masked,  and  the  folds  of 
her  veil  fell  thick  and  shroudingly  round  her  figure,  as  usual.  She  spoke 
no  word,  but  beckoned  ; signing  Gratiano  to  follow  her  forth.  He  lost 
no  time  in  obeying ; and  was  about  to  utter  some  eager  question,  when 
she  enjoined  silence  by  placing  her  finger  on  her  lip.  They  were  no 


368 


DESDEMONA  ! 


sooner  on  the  outside  of  the  door,  than  the  lady  turned  to  replace  the 
fastenings  ; but  Gratiano  hastened  to  relieve  her  from  the  office,  by  clos- 
ing the  massive  door,  turning  the  key,  and  drawing  the  bolts  upon  his 
own  empty  dungeon.  This  done,  his  guide  led  the  way  along  a gallery, 
in  which  Gratiano  could  perceive  several  other  doors  like  the  one  which 
formed  the  entrance  to  the  cell  he  had  so  lately  quitted  ; by  which  he 
supposed  they  were  passing  through  the  access  to  a range  of  dungeons. 
But  he  had  not  opportunity  for  much  observation,  for  his  conductress 
glided  along  with  a swift  though  noiseless  foot,  and  he  soon  found  him- 
self at  the  end  of  the  subterranean  passage,  where  a small  door  led  them 
through  into  a labyrinth  of  arches,  which  seemed  to  form  the  foundation 
of  some  large  hall,  or  chamber,  above.  Soon,  they  came  to  a winding 
stone-staircase,  up  which  the  lady  led  the  wray.  On  reaching  the  sum- 
mit, they  emerged  into  another  long  passage,  which  had  also  several  doors 
leading  from  it. 

Here,  there  was  sufficient  glimmer  of  breaking  light  from  the  ap- 
proaching dawn,  or  rather  from  closing  night,  to  make  its  way  through 
some  high-grated  windows ; which  the  lady  perceiving,  she  extinguished 
the  lamp  she  carried,  and  proceeded  by  such  twilight  help,  as  seemed 
radiant,  compared  with  the  subterranean  gloom  they  had  left, — more 
especially  to  the  vision  of  a man  who  had  well-nigh  lost  hope  of  ever 
again  beholding  the  light  of  day. 

Presently,  there  was  the  sound  of  a footstep;  it  seemed  approach- 
ing, and  the  lady  suddenly  turned,  threw  open  one  of  the  side  doors, 
drawing  Gratiano  silently  with  her  into  the  room  to  which  it  opened. 
She  listened : the  step  came  clanking  along  the  passage,  as  if  it  were 
that  of  an  armed  man  ; passed  the  door,  went  on,  and  was  soon  lost  in 
the  distance.  During  these  few  minutes  of  suspense,  Gratiano  had  time 
to  cast  his  eyes  round  the  room  in  which  they  had  taken  refuge ; but  he 
perceived  that  it  was  an  ordinary  looking  chamber,  small,  little  furnish- 
ed, and  apparently  but  little  used. 

Then  the  lady  opened  the  door  of  the  apartment,  and  said  in  a whis- 
pered tone  : — “ You  can  proceed  with  safety  alone,  now,  signior  ; the  end 
of  this  passage  will  take  you  to  a large  vaulted  hall ; cross  it ; go  through 


THE  MAGNIFIES  CHILD. 


369 


the  opposite  entrance  leading  into  a corridor,  at  the  termination  of  which 
there  is  a low  door  leading  out  upon  a landing-place.  At  the  landing- 
place,  }mu  will  find  a boat  ready  to  convey  you  to  a place  of  safety. 
Farewell ! ” 

Gratiano  would  have  poured  forth  some  of  the  expressions  of  grati- 
tude for  her  protection  and  aid,  some  of  the  eager  enquiries  he  longed 
to  make  ; but,  with  her  finger  again  and  yet  more  impressively  laid  upon 
her  lip,  she  murmured  : — ■“  Stay  not  to  speak,  I beseech  you,  signior  ; 
every  moment  increases  your  peril — my  own.  Once  more,  farewell.” 

With  an  earnestness  not  to  be  withstood,  the  lady  continued  to  mo- 
tion him  forth.  He  could  do  no  other  than  obey  her ; but  the  instant 
he  stepped  out  into  the  passage,  the  door  closing  upon  him,  he  repented 
that  he  had  not  entreated  two  words  more.  He  hesitated  for  a few 
seconds  ; then,  yielding  to  an  impulse  he  could  not  restrain,  he  deter- 
mined to  risk  all  for  the  satisfaction  of  speaking  farther  to  her,  and  hastily 
re-opened  the  door. 

But  the  apartment  was  empty.  No  trace  of  the  lady  was  to  be  seen  ; 
nor  any  indication  of  how  she  had  effected  her  egress.  No  door  or  open- 
ing could  he  perceive  of  any  kind,  save  a single  window,  high  up,  and 
grated.  She  had  vanished. 

After  standing  a moment,  amazed  and  disconcerted,  there  came  to 
his  recollection  two  words  of  hers,  which,  more  than  anything  else,  made 
him  hasten  away.  She  had  said,  66  every  moment  increases  your  peril — 
my  own.”  * The  thought  that  he  might  injure  her  by  remaining,  induced 
him,  therefore,  to  hazard  no  longer  stay,  but  at  once  to  follow  her  instruc- 
tions. He  reached  the  landing-place,  as  she  had  directed,  and  found  the 
boat  awaiting  him.  He  saw,  as  he  had  half  anticipated,  that  the  boat- 
man was  no  other  than  the  lady’s  usual  attendant,  the  lad  whom  he  had 
named  her  dumb  slave. 

There  he  sat,  with  folded  arms,  and  fixed  regard,  mutely  waiting ; 
but  on  seeing  Gratiano  appear  at  the  low  portal,  he  started  up,  as  if  ex- 
pecting him  ; and  upon  his  stepping  into  the  gondola,  pushed  off  silent- 
ly, as  if  in  pursuit  of  previously-received  orders.  There  seemed  no 
need  of  communication ; the  boat  proceeded  steadily,  with  an  evidently 


370 


DESDEMONA  ! 


pre-appolnted  course,  quite  independent  of  anything  Gratiano  might 
have  to  propose  ; and  the  adventure  concluded  with  no  less  mystery  than 
had  marked  it  from  the  beginning.  The  young  boatman  conveyed  him 
through  the  quiet  canals, — hazy,  chill,  and  entirely  deserted  at  that  early 
hour,  when  night  had  scarcely  given  place  to  the  first  faint  streaks  of 
dawn  ; drew  to  a landing-place  at  one  of  the  most  retired  quarters  of  the 
city  ; and  then  stopped,  as  if  to  let  step  him  ashore.  Gratiano  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  addressing  a question  to  his  singular  gondolier, 
before  they  parted ; but  as  he  anticipated,  he  received  no  other  reply 
than  a slight  shake  of  the  head,  a shrug  of  the  shoulders,  and  the  con- 
tinued look  of  patient  expectation  that  he  would  land.  He  did  so  ; and 
the  gondola,  with  its  silent  gondolier,  retreated,  gliding  swiftly  away ; 
both  soon  lost  to  sight  in  the  grey  mist  of  morning. 

The  sun  arose  gloriously.  As  its  beams  put  to  flight  the  darkness 
of  the  past  night,  so  did  the  thought  of  that  interview  which  Gratiano 
had  promised  himself  should  take  place  on  the  coming  morning,  displace 
the  recollection  of  the  last  few  hours,  and  the  events  they  had  wit- 
nessed. 

His  reception  by  Brabantio  was  as  full  of  cordiality  and  welcome  as 
he  could  have  desired  ; and  he  soon  perceived  that  time  had  done  nearly 
as  much  in  softening  the  magnifico’s  manners,  as  it  had  wrought  change 
in  his  appearance.  He  showed  an  affectionate  pleasure  at  beholding  one 
so  dear  to  Erminia ; evinced  regret  that  Gratiano  had  quitted  them,  by 
the  warmth  with  which  he  greeted  his  return ; and  best  proved  repent- 
ance for  his  own  former  conduct,  by  the  eagerness  with  which  he  called 
him  brother,  and  pressed  him  henceforth  to  share  his  home. 

1 have  one  strong  inducement  to  offer  you,  in  urging  this  last  pro- 
posal concluded  Brabantio,  as  he  despatched  an  attendant  to  the  lady 
Desdemona’s  apartment,  to  summon  her,  that  he  might  present  her  to 
her  uncle ; “ my  daughter  has  grown  to  womanhood,  in  goodness  and 
grace,  worthy  even  of  her  whom  we  have  lost;  and  in  finding  that  a 
father’s  fond  partiality  does  not  extol  her  beyond  her  desert,  shall  be 
your  best  hope  of  consolation  for  her  mother’s  loss.  Stay  with  us ; 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


371 


make  your  happiness  in  her  love  ; let  her  be  a child  to  you,  no  less  than 
to  me ; let  her  find  a second  father  in  my  brother  Gratiano.” 

“ I have  already  beheld  your  treasure,  my  brother was  Gratiano’s 
reply ; “ I saw  her  with  you  at  the  duke’s  entertainment,  yesterday,  in 
St.  Mark’s  place;  and  all  that  my  eyes  could  inform  me  of  her  merit, 
went  to  prove  the  generosity  of  your  goodness,  in  permitting  me  a share 
in  the  filial  love  of  such  a creature.  The  warmth  with  which  I accept 
the  proffer  of  your  regard  and  hers,  may  best  evince  my  sense  of  its 
worth.” 

“ Come  hither,  jewel said  Brabantio  to  his  daughter  Desdemona, 
as  she  entered.  “ What  wilt  thou  say  to  me,  an’  I give  thee  another 
father,  who  will  love  thee  scarce  less  fondly  than  my  foolish  old  self? 
What  reward  do  I deserve  for  finding  thy  sailor-uncle  for  thee,  and 
bringing  him  back  with  a heart  prepared  to  be  well-nigh  as  soft  and 
indulgent  towards  thee  as  mine  own?  We  will  make  him  so  welcome, 
will  we  not,  my  girl,  that  he  shall  ne’er  think  of  running  away  from  us 
again.  We  will  try  and  persuade  him  to  give  up  a sea-faring  life,  and 
sit  down  contented  with  us  in  our  sea-girt  city,  our  own  swan-nest  home. 
Look  upon  this  gentleman, — my  brother  Gratiano ; and  bid  thy  uncle, 
thy  second  father,  welcome,  Desdemona !” 

His  daughter  advanced ; the  blood  mantling  in  her  cheek,  as  she 
murmured  a few  words  of  gentle  yet  earnest  welcome.  But  low  as  the 
murmur  was,  gentle  as  were  the  words, — there  was  no  mistaking  that 
voice.  Gratiano  felt  that  the  lady  in  black  stood  before  him  ; that  the 
radiant  beauty  of  the  day  before,  in  her  virginal  white  and  pearls, — the 
lovely  girl  whom  he  now  looked  upon,  in  silken  vesture  of  faint  lilac 
hue,  pure  and  delicate,  as  some  fresh  spring  flower,  or  a feather  from 
dove’s  wing, — and  the  mysterious  figure,  black-robed,  veiled,  and  masked, 
were  one  and  the  same  person. 

“Your  uncle  has  the  advantage  of  us,  my  girl;  he  has  seen  us 
before  ; he  tells  me  he  saw  us  yesterday  at  the  duke’s  feast.  I wonder 
we  did  not  note  him  among  the  guests.  The  signior  capitano’s  is  no 
figure  to  pass  unobserved.” 

Desdemona  uttered  a few  words  of  assent  to  her  father’s  compliment; 


372 


DESDEMONA  ! 


but  she  said  nothing  of  having  herself  seen  Grratiano  before  ; and  her 
uncle  forbore  making  any  allusion  to  what  she  evidently  did  not  intend 
mentioning.  He  could,  however,  see  that  she  was  no  less  aware  than 
himself  of  their  having  previously  met ; for  the  color  of  her  cheek  varied, 
and  there  was  consciousness  in  her  eye.  To  her  father,  her  manner  was 
accounted  for,  by  the  agitation  of  beholding,  for  the  first  time,  that 
sailor-uncle,  whom  she  knew  and  loved  only  through  her  mother’s  words 
of  affectionate  remembrance. 

“ But,  I believe,  we  none  of  us,  yesterday,  had  eyes  and  ears  save  for 
him,  our  victorious  general continued  Brabantio.  “ Beside  him,  others 
scarce  less  worthy  of  regard,  stood  unobserved.  He  is  a brave  soldier, 
and  hath  a noble  manhood  in  his  look,  as  well  as  a frank  and  honorable 
speech  that  have  taken  me  mightily.  I have  entreated  him  hither,  as 
often  as  he  will  pleasure  me  with  his  visits.  He  has  promised  me  to 
come  to-morrow.  Let  thy  ordering  of  the  banquet  for  the  occasion  do 
credit  to  thy  housewifery  and  to  my  wish  to  do  him  honor,  good  my 
daughter.  The  valiant  Moor  has  done  brave  service  to  the  Venetian 
state  ; and  it  is  fitting  her  senators  should  show  him  all  countenance  and 
approval.” 

u My  best  care  shall  be  given,  to  further  your  wish,  my  father;”  she 
answered. 

“ And  while  we  are  on  the  subject  of  household  discussion,  gentle 
mistress,”  continued  Brabantio,  “ see  that  the  green  and  gold  suite  of 
apartments  be  appointed  for  the  occupation  of  thine  uncle  Grratiano. 
He  has  consented  to  grant  us  his  society,  and  take  up  his  abode  here 
altogether.  You  see,  brother,  I treat  you  with  the  slight  ceremony  be- 
fitting a relation.  I speak  of  housewifery  concerns  with  my  daughter, 
as  though  you  were  not  present.  You  will  prove  you  forgive  our  scant 
ceremonial,  by  treating  us  with  as  little  ; and  by  showing  that  you  feel 
yourself  as  much  at  home  with  us,  as  we  show  ourselves  to  be  with  you.” 

Grratiano  had  not  long  been  domesticated  with  Brabantio  and  his 
daughter,  ere  he  discovered  that  the  softening  in  the  magnifico’s  manner, 
was  a softening  in  manner  only ; as  long  as  nothing  thwarted  him,  as 
long  as  he  had  his  own  will  uncontradicted,  he  was  all  courtesy,  affa- 


THE  MAGNIFICO’s  CHILD. 


373 


bility,  and  bland  condescension  ; but  once  cross  his  humour,  or  oppose 
his  wishes,  and  he  was  as  haughty,  as  irascible  as  ever.  G-ratiano  per- 
ceived that  this  was  the  reason  of  his  daughter’s  conduct.  It  was  the 
origin  of  her  silent  acquiescence  in  whatever  her  father  advanced ; whether 
true  or  not,  that  mattered  less,  than  that  he  should  remain  uncontradicted. 
It  was  the  source  of  her  omitting  to  mention  their  having  seen  each  other 
before,  when  they  met  in  Brabantio’s  presence,  lest  it  should  occasion 
the  discovery  of  her  private  expeditions  ; in  which,  masked  and  veiled,  she 
secretly  went  forth  to  prosecute  her  charitable  purposes,  without  her 
father’s  knowledge,  relying  solely  on  their  innocence,  their  virtuous  in- 
tention. 

G-ratiano’s  questions  led  to  her  candid  statement,  that  it  was  because 
she  felt  alms-giving,  charitable  visitation  of  the  sick  and  the  miserable, 
and  affording  such  help  and  healing  as  lay  in  her  power  to  bestow,  were 
the  sole  sources  whence  she  could  hope  to  derive  comfort  under  the  af- 
fliction of  losing  her  mother,  which  had  first  induced  her  to  try  th?s  course ; 
and  that  it  was  only  that  she  might  not  importune  or  displease  her  father, 
that  she  had  failed  to  ask  his  sanction  to  a procedure  in  which  she  could 
see  no  harm. 

Upon  her  uncle’s  pointing  out  how  she  might  risk  compromise  of  re- 
putation in  the  pursuit  of  even  good  deeds,  by  disguise  and  privacy, 
which  gave  them  a clandestine  air  ; she,  in  her  own  meekness,  and  sweet 
docility,  voluntarily  promised  to  pursue  them  thus  no  more.  She  said 
that  she  would  entreat  her  good  uncle  to  be  her  almoner  ; that  he  should 
advise  with  her  in  future  ; should  aid  her  to  dispense  her  gifts  judiciously 
and  appropriately  ; and  that  then,  through  the  faithful  Lancetto,  they 
should  be  conveyed  into  the  hands  of  the  selected  objects. 

Gratiano  told  her  how  he  had  so  frequently  met  and  watched  her ; 
how  he  had  become  interested  in  her,  little  thinking  the  tie  which  really 
existed  between  them ; how  he  had  styled  her,  in  thought,  an  Eastern 
princess,  bound  on  some  strange  errand,  such  as  took  the  lady  of  old 
through  the  streets  of  Bagdad ; how  he  had  settled  Lancetto  to  be  her 
dumb  slave,  her  faithful  mute. 

And  then,  Desdemona,  amused  with  her  uncle’s  story,  would  inter- 


374 


DESDEMONA \ 


rupt  him  laughingly  to  explain,  that  her  attendant  was  not  dumb,  but 
deaf,  though  no  less  faithful  than  any  mute  of  Arabian  story. 

And  then,  Gratiano  drew  from  her  an  explanation  of  that  mysterious 
night-adventure,  when  she  had  been  his  protectress,  and  rescuer  from 
captivity. 

He  learned  that  she  did  not  even  know  who  the  prisoner  was.  But 
that  one  of  her  women  had  informed  her  of  what  she  had  overheard  from 
some  of  the  retainers,  about  a man  that  was  to  be  seized  by  order  of 
signior  Brabantio,  and  conveyed  into  one  of  the  subterranean  range  of 
strong  rooms  belonging  to  the  palace,  until  such  time  as  he  could  be  re- 
moved to  the  state-prisons.  That  the  girl  had  afterwards  heard  the  man 
telling  of  a mistake  that  had  been  made  in  the  person  seized ; that  they 
feared  signior  Brabantio’s  displeasure  when  he  should  discover  their 
error  ; that  they  determined  to  make  farther  search  for  the  right  man ; 
and  as  for  the  poor  devil  who  had  been  caught  by  mistake,  he  might  re- 
main where  he  was,  quietly,  as  he  could  tell  no  tales  through  stone  walls, 
that  would  reach  signior  Brabantio’s  ears.  That  on  hearing  this  from 
her  scared  damsel,  Desdemona  had  determined  to  take  upon  herself  the 
quiet  evasion  of  the  prisoner  ; and  that  since,  she  had  been  much  divert- 
ed by  the  girl’s  report,  of  how  the  men  had  found  the  captive  escaped, 
the  untouched  locks  and  bolts  on  the  outside  of  the  dungeon  door  plain- 
ly indicating  that  he  owed  his  rescue  to  the  intervention  of  the  Madonna, 
or  to  his  own  wicked  dealings  with  the  infernal  powers. 

“ And  by  what  sorcery  did  Desdemon  herself  contrive  to  make  her 
escape,  that  night  7 ” said  her  uncle,  adopting  the  caressing  abbreviation 
of  her  name,  used  by  her  father  ; “ my  curiosity  to  learn  more  of  my 
swart  preserver,  out-weighed  my  discretion ; and  I returned  to  the  room, 
to  find  her  flown.  But  how  7 For  on  a nearer  knowledge,  I find  she  is 
unprovided  with  wings,  notwithstanding  any  other  seraphic  attributes 
she  may  possess.” 

Desdemona  explained  to  her  uncle,  that  a slidingqpanel  gave  egress 
from  the  room  in  question. 

“ In  future,  depute  me  to  carry  out  your  benevolent  chivalries  for 
you,  Desdemona  mia said  her  uncle.  “ You  are  not  exactly  the  figure 


THE  MAGNIFIES  CHILD. 


375 


for  an  amazon ; all  tlie  brazen  armour  in  the  Arsenal  would  not  suffice 
to  make  a knight-errant  of  you ; all  the  black  veils  and  plain  gowns  in 
V enice  cannot  disguise  that  noble  air  of  thine ; do  not  flatter  thyself 
that  a mask  will  hide,  what  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to  set  with  two  such 
lustrous  jewels  ; no,  no,  there’s  a lady-look  about  thee,  Desdemon,  that 
would  betray  thee  through  russet,  home-spun,  and  dowlas.  Take  my 
word  for  it ; best  keep  thou  thy  state,  and  send  me  of  thine  errands  ; 
thou  shalt  have  no  occasion  to  reproach  me  with  lack  of  zeal,  I warrant 
thee.” 

Desdemona  playfully  consented  to  dub  hinj.  her  knight-almoner,  on 
condition,  she  said,  that  he  would  resign  his  commission  in  the  navy,  and 
keep  house  with  her  father  and  herself. 

“ With  you  for  our  housekeeper,  I know  not  what  would  tempt  me 
abroad.  It  is  agreed  then,  between  us.  I give  up  the  sea  ; you  give 


“ Hush ! my  father  comes.  It  is  a covenant said  Desdemona, 
hastily  interrupting  her  uncle,  as  signior  Brabantio  entered  the  apart- 
ment, bringing  with  him  the  Moorish  general  Othello ; who  was  now  a 
frequent  visitor  at  the  senator’s  palace. 

The  conversation  fell,  as  was  usually  the  case,  upon  the  general’s  ad- 
ventures ; Brabantio  loving  to  hear  him  relate  them,  as  often  as  he  could 
draw  Othello  upon  the  theme. 

Gratiano  listened,  too,  with  interest,  to  a history  delivered  by  its  own 
hero,  with  as  much  modesty  as  eloquence ; and  he  thought  he  could  per- 
ceive that  his  niece  was  a no  less  attentive  hearer  than  either  her  father 
or  himself.  He  knew  that  she  was  full  of  high  romantic  feeling,  of  en- 
thusisam,  for  all  her  outward  serenity ; he  knew  of  what  devotion,  of 
what  magnanimity  she  was  capable ; he  knew  how  her  soul  aspired  to 
nobility  of  deed,  and  how  it  claimed  affinity  with  virtue  and  heroism, 
notwithstanding  the  feminine  gentleness  and  maidenly  reserve  of  her 
demeanour, — her  quiet  look,  her  still  motion,  her  soft  voice,  and  low- 
toned  speech ; and,  knowing  all  this,  it  did  not  surprise  him  to  see  her 
greatly  interested  by  the  narrative  of  the  warlike  Othello. 

She  would  sit  at  her  embroidery-frame  in  the  window,  while  he  con- 


376 


DESDEMONA : 


versed  with  her  father  and  uncle  ; hut  the  latter  observed,  that  as  the 
story  proceeded,  her  needle  would  forget  its  office,  and  the  stitch  remain 
unset,  until  some  perilous  circumstance,  or  hair-breadth  escape  were 
passed ; and  that  then,  a sigh  of  relief,  as  of  long-held  breath,  accom- 
panied the  suspended  drawing  through  of  the  silk.  He  noticed  too,  that 
if  anything  occurred  to  interrupt  the  discourse,  she  would  ingeniously 
contrive  to  bring  it  back  to  the  same  subject ; or  if,  by  chance,  called 
forth  herself,  by  some  domestic  duty,  she  would  return  in  so  short  a 
space  of  time,  as  plainly  bespoke  her  eagerness  to  lose  no  word. 

Yet  notwithstanding  that  he  discovered  these  tokens  of  the  interest 
which  Desdemona  took  in  the  conversation  of  her  father’s  guest,  her 
uncle  did  not  see  that  she  showed  any  particular  favor  or  attention  to 
that  guest  himself.  She  paid  the  respect  and  courtesy  due  to  her  father’s 
friend,  but  still  she  behaved  with  more  of  coldness  and  distance,  than 
seemed  compatible  with  her  preference  for  his  discourse.  Gratiano 
would  have  been  more  at  a loss  to  account  for  this  inconsistency  of  man- 
ner, had  not  his  previous  knowledge  of  his  niece,  and  of  the  reserve 
which  her  father’s  peculiarity  of  temper  had  superinduced,  helped  him 
to  form  some  idea  of  the  true  cause  of  what  he  saw.  He  noticed  that 
she  showed  more  of  this  retiring  coldness  when  her  father  was  present? 
Jffian  at  any  other  time.  He  noticed  that  she  was  more  shy,  more  dis- 
tant, when  Brabantio  was  by ; that  she  insensibly  became  less  frank  and 
artless,  before  him ; a cloud  of  restraint  seemed  to  sit  more  or  less  upon 
her,  then  ; giving  a bashful  hesitation  and  irresoluteness  to  her  manner, 
— a want  of  candour  and  straightforwardness  to  her  words.  To  have 
seen  her  bid  good  morning  to  the  Moor,  when  her  father  presented  him 
to  her  on  his  arrival,  or  say  farewell  on  his  departure,  the  lady  might 
have  been  thought  almost  to  feel  repugnance  towards  him,  so  shrinkingly 
and  tremblingly  she  curtsied,  so  reluctantly  her  hand  seemd  to  meet  his ; 
and  yet,  when  seated  behind  her  father’s  chair,  at  her  embroidery-frame, 
there  was  a color  in  her  face,  an  eagerness  in  her  quivering  fingers,  a 
warmth  and  glow  of  interest  in  her  very  silence,  that  told  the  avidity 
with  which  she  devoured  every  word  that  was  falling  from  the  speaker’s 
lips. 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD 


377 


These  evidences  of  imperfect  sincerity,  of  a want  of  consistent  can- 
dour and  openness  in  the  character  of  the  otherwise  perfect  Desdemona, 
gave  her  uncle  inexpressible  pain.  He  could  but  too  well  account  for 
them.  He  knew  the  irrational  wilfulness  of  her  father  too  well,  to  be 
at  a loss  for  their  source.  He  saw,  that  the  overbearing  temper  of  Bra- 
bantio  had  induced  this  undue  timidity  in  his  daughter ; had  taught  her 
a shrinking  terror  of  giving  offence,  which  insensibly,  and  almost  inevi- 
tably, degenerated  into  dissimulation.  By  generous  usage,  by  tender- 
ness, by  confidence,  by  sensible  and  candid  treatment,  the  gentle  Desde- 
mona  might  have  been  won  to  extreme  of  openness  and  sincerity,- — she 
might  have  been  made  as  perfect  in  ingenuousness,  as,  by  nature,  she 
possessed  every  other  qualification  to  form  a model  of  womanhood.  As 
it  was,  that  one  fatal  defect  but  too  certainly  existed. 

Once,  at  taking  leave,  her  timid  withdrawal  had  been  so  obvious,  on 
the  general’s  respectfully  saluting  her  hand,  that  the  moment  his  guest 
was  gone,  her  father  rallied  her  upon  her  coyness. 

“ Why,  I fear  me,  Desdemon,  thou  hast  inherited  more  than  a fair 
share  of  that  pride  which  has  always  been  imputed  as  an  attribute  of 
our  house.  And  so,  thy  noble  Venetian  blood  recoiled  from  granting  a 
favor  to  a barbarian,  did  it  ? But  let  me  tell  thee,  gentle  mistress,  for 
all  thy  lily  hand  disdained  to  linger  within  that  dusky  palm,  it  is  a brave 
hand,  a prevailing  hand,  one  that  has  wielded  its  good  sword  right 
valiantly  in  the  service  of  thine  own  Venice,  and  therefore  is  deserving 
of  favor  from  all  her  fairest  ladies.  Nevertheless,  I had  rather  see  thee 
over-proud  than  over-free  to  any  one,  my  girl ; it  sorts  best  with  our 
family  feeling  or  failing,  whichever  they  will  have  it  to  be.  Brabantio’s 
daughter  cannot  hold  herself  too  high  to  please  her  old  father, — well 
thou  know’st  that.” 

And  thus  was  Desdemona’s  course  of  conduct  confirmed. 

Months  flew  by ; and  still  Gratiano  thought  he  could  see  growing 
proof  of  the  difference  he  perceived  in  his  niece’s  conduct  to  the  Moor, 
and  her  feeling  towards  him.  There  was  the  same  outward  appearance 
of  dread  and  dislike.  There  was  marked  indifference, — not  to  say  aver- 
sion,— in  her  manner  of  behaving  to  the  general  himself,  and  a pointed 


378 


DESDEMONA  r 


expression  of  slight  and  disparagement  when  his  name  was  in  question. 
One  of  his  favorite  officers  frequently  brought  messages  to  her  father 
and  herself;  and  on  these  occasions  she  would  make  playful  mockery  of 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  the  young  Florentine  spoke  of  his  noble 
commander.  She  would  appear  incredulous  of  Othello’s  claims  to  the 
respect  and  affection  which  his  officer  professed,  as  well  as  of  the  young 
man’s  professions  themselves  ; she  would  dispute  the  merits,  and  affect 
to  disbelieve  the  regard  and  attachment  they  inspired.  Yet  in  all  this, 
her  uncle  thought  he  could  discern, — not  only  that  subtilty  of  feminine 
device,  which  will  sometimes  disparage  the  object  of  partiality,  for  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  it  defended  by  another, — but  an  ostentation  of  dis- 
like, assumed  to  veil  an  increasing  secret  preference. 

Knowing  her  father’s  haughty  irascibility,  he  dared  not  speak  to 
him  on  the  subject,  lest  he  should  injure  her  with  him ; and  on  one  so 
delicate,  he  felt  hesitation  in  talking  to  Desdemona  herself.  He  felt 
that  he  had  been  too  short  a time  known  to  her  as  an  uncle,  to  warrant 
his  interference,  or  to  entitle  him  to  her  confidence  on  such  a point. 

One  morning,  when  these  ideas  pressed  upon  him  with  unusual  force, 
from  noting  the  looks  of  Desdemona,  as  she  sat  listening,  with  scarce 
a pretence  of  work,  by  her  frame,  in  its  old  place,  at  the  back  of  her  fa- 
ther’s chair,  flushed,  breathless,  and  absorbed  in  the  adventure  then 
narrating,  Gratiano  quietly  withdrew,  and  sallied  forth  into  the  open  air, 
that  he  might  take  counsel  with  himself,  what  should  be  his  own  course, 
and  whether  anything  he  could  say  or  do,  might  discreetly  avail. 

But  his  self-debate,  though  of  considerable  length  and  earnestness, 
ended,  as  all  previous  ones  had  done,  in  his  resolving  still  to  preserve 
silence  in  a matter,  wherein  his  intervention  could  do  no  good,  and 
might  do  harm.  He  was  accordingly  returning,  when,  on  crossing  the 
great  square,  he  met  the  old  gentleman  who  had  made  gossiping  ac- 
quaintance with  him  on  the  occasion  of  the  ducal  entertainment. 

They  saluted  each  other,  and  fell  into  talk. 

Gratiano  sought  to  draw  it  towards  the  subject  nearest  his  thoughts, 
— the  character  of  the  man  whom  he  believed  to  have  inspired  so  strong 
an  interest  and  regard  in  Desdemona  ; and  the  gentleman  easily  followed 
his  lead. 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


379 


cc  Truly,  there  is  hut  one  report  of  our  valiant  general ; he  has  the 
popular  voice  entirely  in  his  favor ; and  Othello  is  no  less  looked  up  to 
by  the  commonalty,  than  he  is  in  high  esteem  with  their  rulers.  The 
Moor,  during  his  sojourn  here  with  us  in  Yenice,  has  won  all  hearts  ; 
by  his  soldierly  conduct,  his  warlike  knowledge,  his  prudence,  his  main- 
tenance of  discipline,  and  tho  modest  dignity  with  which  he  bears  the 
honors  awarded  to  him.” 

a You  speak  him  highly,  signior  said  Gratiano. 

“Not  more  highly  than  he  deserves  returned  the  old  gentleman. 
tt  To  give  you  a convincing  proof  that  I am  sincere,  I will  tell  you,  that 
notwithstanding  he  refused  a suit,  which  I,  and  two  of  my  friends  pre- 
ferred to  him,  in  behalf  of  a certain  officer  of  his,  whom  we  thought  pecu- 
liarly deserving  of  promotion,  I felt  more  constrained  to  yield  him 
praise,  than  even  before  his  refusal.  It  was  given  with  so  firm,  so  manly 
an  air  ; he  gave  us  reasons  for  his  denial,  so  wise,  so  just,  so  convincing, 
at  the  same  time  showing  us  he  was  sorry  to  be  compelled  to  deny  us, 
and  also  admitting  all  that  we  said  in  favor  of  our  client,  while  yet  he 
adhered  to  his  own  grounded  preference  for  the  officer  he  had  himself 
selected  for  promotion  to  the  post  of  lieutenant,  that,  as  I tell  you,  I 
admire  the  general  more  heartily  than  ever.  Othello  is  a noble  war- 
rior ; and  a just,  an  honorable  gentleman.” 

u Then  why,  after  all,  should  I fear  to  find  that  she  has  bestowed  her 
regard  upon  such  a man  ?”  mused  Gratiano,  after  taking  leave  of  the  old 
gentleman.  “ I believe,  it  is  chiefly,  in  dread  of  the  rage,  the  grief^ 
which  would  be  her  father’s,  on  the  discovery  that  his  fair  child  had 
given  her  heart  to  this  Moor.  And  am  I sure  that  it  is  so  ? May  not 
my  surmise  be  false — utterly  baseless?  ” 

On  reaching  the  Brabantio  palace,  he  learned  that  soon  after  his  own 
departure  thence,  the  senator  had  been  summoned  to  a council  of  state. 

u They  are  alone,  then  ; have  been  alone  some  time  ;”  thought  Gra- 
tiano, as  he  approached  the  saloon,  their  usual  sitting-room,  where  he 
had  left  Brabantio,  his  daughter,  and  their  guest. 

When  he  entered  the  apartment,  however,  he  at  first  thought  it 
empty ; but  presently  he  perceived  Desdemona  there,  alone,  leaning 


380 


DESDEMONA  J 


amongst  the  folds  of  a curtain  that  draperied  the  window  which  led  out 
into  a balcony  over-hanging  the  grand  canal.  She.  was  not  looking  forth ; 
her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a curiously  wrought  handkerchief  that  she 
held  in  her  hand,  and  more  than  once  pressed  to  her  lips  in  a fond, 
passionate  manner.  Her  eyes  gave  evidence  that  she  had  been  weeping; 
but  there  was  that  in  their  expression,  which  told  of  deep-seated  hap- 
piness, far  more  eloquently  than  the  brightest  lustre  that  had  ever 
sparkled  in  them. 

Her  uncle  could  not  bear  to  watch  her  thus  unobserved ; he  felt 
there  was  a kind  of  treason, — involuntary  though  it  might  be, — in  thus 
witnessing  her  self-communion.  He  was  preparing  to  leave  the  room ; 
when  the  slight  noise  he  made,  attracted  her  attention,  and  he  saw  her 
hastily  conceal  the  handkerchief  among  the  folds  of  her  robe.  Shortly 
after,  on  some  slight  pretext,  she  herself  withdrew. 

And  yet  once  again  he  saw  her  caress  this  same  handkerchief.  She 
was  sitting  bending  over  her  embroidery-frame,  with  her  back  towards 
him,  as  he  entered  ; and  he  had  advanced  some  feet  into  the  room,  before 
she  heard  the  approaching  step.  Then  she  thrust  the  kerchief  into  the 
case  which  held  her  colored  silks ; but  not  before  the  curious  arabesques 
of  the  flowered  border,  and  the  strawberries  spotted  over  the  centre, 
had  shown  her  uncle,  that  it  was  the  one  he  had  before  beheld. 

Had  he  not  seen  this, — had  he  not  witnessed  these  endearments, 
lavished  in  secret  upon  a token  which  he  could  not  but  associate  with 
the  Moor,  as  his  gift,  from  its  oriental  look,  and  yet  more  from  the 
fondness  with  which  Desdemona  regarded  it, — Gratiano  would  have 
been  more  surprised  than  he  actually  was,  upon  being,  one  night,  hastily 
aroused  from  his  bed,  and  hearing  that  his  brother  was  distracted  with 
the  news  that  his  child  was  gone ; that  Desdemona  had  fled  from  her 
father’s  house ; that  it  was  whispered,  that  she  had  left  the  palace  secret- 
ly, with  the  Moorish  general ; that  it  was  reported  she  was  married  to 
Othello. 

All  this  news,  disjointedly  and  incoherently  poured  into  his  ear,  as 
he  hurried  on  his  dress,  seemed  to  reproach  him  with  having  taken  part 
in  her  clandestine  act,  by  preserving  silence  so  long.  He  hastened  to 


THE  MAGNIFICO’S  CHILD. 


381 


his  brother,  but  found  that  Brabantio  had  already  left  the  palace ; that 
the  senators  were  assembled  in  council ; that  there  was  a talk  of  sudden 
and  warlike  preparation  against  the  Turks. 

Amidst  all  these  flying  rumours,  there  was  one  that  caught  Gratia- 
no’s  ear,  and  caused  him  to  hasten  to  his  old  quarters  at  the  Sagittary. 
It  was  here  that  Othello,  and  the  other  military  then  in  Venice,  like- 
wise were  stationed ; and  here  it  was  said,  that  he  had  conveyed  his 
new-made  wife. 

Gratiano  reached  the  Arsenal,  just  as  Desdemona  was  being  con- 
ducted from  the  Sagittary,  by  order  of  the  senate,  to  the  ducal  palace. 
Her  uncle  hastened  to  give  her  the  support  of  his  presence.  She 
looked  pale,  but  collected ; and  as  if  resolved  to  assume  her  utmost 
firmness. 

On  her  entering  the  assembly  of  senators,  the  duke  spoke  ; then 
her  father ; and  then  her  uncle  heard  her  soft  voice, — gentle  and  low, 
but  wonderfully  calm,  as  if  she  willed  it  not  to  tremble, — utter  these 
words : 

u My  noble  father , 

I do  perceive  here  a divided  duty : 

To  you , I am  bound , for  life,  and  education  ; 

My  life , and  education , both  do  learn  me 
How  to  respect  you ; you  are  the  lord  of  duty , 

I am  hitherto  your  daughter.  But  herds  my  husband  ; 

And  so  much  duty  as  my  mother  showed 
To  you , preferring  you  before  her  father , 

So  much  I challenge  that  I may  profess 
Due  to  the  Moor , my  lord" 


What  follows  further  of  the  “ downright  violence  and  storm  of  for- 
tunes ” that  befell  Desdemona,  is  u trumpeted  to  the  world  ” by  the  Poet. 
“ I pray  you,  hear  4 him 5 speak.” 


TALE  V. 


MEG  AND  ALICE;  THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


“ Merry,  and  yet  honest  too.” 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 


“ Have  ye  heard  the  news,  mother  ?”  said  a girl  about  twelve  years 
old,  bouncing  through  the  open  door  of  a cottage  where  sat  her  parents, 
gaffer  and  gammer  Quickly  ; “ have  ye  heard  that  mistress  May  and 
mistress  Gay  have  both  been  brought  to  bed  this  morning — and  that 
they  have  a goodly  girl  apiece  ? ” 

“ Girls  ; pshaw  ! ” ejaculated  John  Quickly. 

“ And  why  shouldn’t  they  be  girls,  if  they  like  it,  J ohn  ? And  why 
shouldn’t  girls  be  as  good  as  boys  ? ” asked  Gilian,  his  wife ; “ I know 
you  were  like  one  wood,  when  ye  learned  that  your  own  children  were 
both  wenches  ; but  for  my  part  I’d  never  ha’  changed  our  Neil  and  Poll 
for  any  knave-bear n of  them  all.” 

“ In  the  first  place,  boys  can  work  ; and  girls  are  of  no  use quoth 
John. 

“Of  no  use!  Can’t  they  be  good  housewives,  John  ? ” asked  his 
wife. 

“ Can  be  ? Ay.  But  are  they  ? eh  ? Seldom,  I wot grumbled 
John.  “ There’s  our  Nell.  What  did  she  do,  trow? — but  as  soon  as 
she  grew  to  be  a likely  wench  in  her  teens,  wasn’t  she  teen  enough  to 
me?  Wasn’t  she  always  gadding  about,  running  after  the  fellows,  and 


386 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ! 


never  content,  till  she  got  her  cousin  Boh  Quickly  to  marry  her  ? And 
now  haven’t  they  set  off  to  London  to  get  their  living  there  % And  much 
good  I’ve  got  out  of  my  eldest  girl,  haven’t  1 1 ” 

“ Why,  I think  she’s  done  very  well,  J ohn  ; she  might  ha’  done 
worse said  the  philosophic  Gilian.  u She’s  married  the  lad  of  her 
choice ; she’s  gone  up  to  London,  to  live  among  ladies,  if  she  is  not  a 
lady  herself  Didn’t  Jem  Wainrope,  the  waggoner,  bring  us  word  that 
they’ve  taken  a tavern  in  Eastcheap,  and  that  they’ve  called  it  the 
Boar’s  Head ; and  that  they’re  like  to  drive  a thriving  trade  there  ? ” 
u Ay,  that’s  all  very  well  for  them  ; but  what’s  the  good  of  it  to  me  ?” 
growled  gaffer  Quickly.  u If  Nell  be  making  her  fortune  as  a hostess 
in  London,  that  don’t  do  me  any  service  here,  in  Windsor,  do  it,  wife  ?” 
t£  Well,  there’s  our  Poll  left  to  us,  John,”  said  gammer  Quickly  ; like 
many  another  philosopher,  shifting  her  ground,  when  she  found  herself 
worsted  in  one  part  of  the  argument ; “ there’s  our  Poll ; I’ll  warrant 
her,  she’ll  never  leave  her  old  father  and  mother ; but  stay  and  take  ser- 
vice in  Windsor,  if  we  get  her  a good  place,  won’t  ye,  Polly  ? ” 

“ I’ll  tell  ye  what,  wife,”  said  John  Quickly,  interrupting  whatever 
reply  his  daughter  might  have  been  about  to  make ; “ it’s  my  notion 
that  our  Poll  is  going  on,  much  the  same  road  that  her  sister  Nell  took. 
Good  housewife,  quotha  ? I see  little  of  the  good  housewife  about  her, 
as  yet ; nothing  that’ll  get  her  a good  place,  or  fit  her  for  useful  service. 
I see  nought  but  flitting  hither  and  thither  ; gossiping  with  neighbours  ; 
idling  away  her  mornings ; chattering  away  her  afternoons ; busybody- 
ing,  prating,  meddling  and  making  in  everybody’s  concerns.  There 
isn’t  a bride-ale,  or  a burial ; a harvest-home,  or  a sheep-shearing ; a 
Christmas  revel,  or  Hock-holiday,  that  our  Poll  doesn’t  take  good  care 
to  be  among  the  foremost  in  them  ; Plough- Monday,  Shrove-Tuesday  ; 
May-morning,  Midsummer-eve  ; Whitsuntide,  Martlemas,  Candlemas, 
— all’s  one  to  Poll ; she’ll  take  right  good  heed  not  to  lose  a single 
chance  for  gossipry,  and  idling  of  any  sort ; and  how’s  she  to  learn  good 
housewifery  in  all  that  play-making,  I should  like  to  know  ? ” 

“ Our  Poll’s  but  young,  John  said  his  wife  ; u she’ll  be  steadier  by 
and  bye ; won’tee,  Polly  V 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


387 


“ To  be  sure,  mother replied  the  daughter.  “ But  you  haven’t 
heard  the  best  part  of  my  news  yet.  Farmer  Gay  and  Farmer  May  are 
about  to  give  their  christenings  together,  that  there  may  be  a right 
goodly  feast,  to  do  honor  to  their  two  little  girls  ; and  every  body’s  to 
be  bidden  to’t ; and  there’s  to  be  such  holiday  doings  as  never  were 
known  in  Windsor  before,  at  a farmer’s  table,  they  say.” 

“ I know’d  it  was  a holiday  o’  some  sort  that  had  set  our  Poll  agog 
in  this  way  said  gaffer  Quickly. 

“ And  so  there’s  to  be  a grand  feast,  is  there  ?”  added  he  presently. 
“ Ay  truly,  is  there,  father said  Polly ; “ and  you  know,  well  as 
I love  a morris-dance,  a mumming,  a May-pole  measure,  or  a game  of 
barley-break,  where  I may  lighten  my  heels  and  my  spirits,  footing  it 
or  sporting  it  away  by  the  hour  together,  you  are  to  the  full  as  content 
with  a holiday  that  promises  plenty  of  good  fare  and  humming  ale.  I 
can  tell  ye  there’s  to  be  everything  of  the  best  and  the  cheerest  at  this 
christening ; for  both  farmer  Gay  and  farmer  May,  have  so  long  been 
hoping  in  vain  that  their  dames  would  bring  them  a child,  that  now  the 
babies  are  born,  they  think  they  can’t  do  enow  to  show  their  joy,  and  to 
make  all  the  folks  in  Windsor  rejoice  with  ’em.  Lord  be  joyful ! say 
I ; and  sing,  c Blessed  is  he  that  has  his  quiver-full !’  ” 

“ The  beams  have  been  so  long  a coming,  their  fathers  have  haa 
time  to  get  rich  meanwhile  grunted  John.  “ Well  for  ’em  ! But  now, 
they  must  needs  hasten  to  spend  what  they’ve  gained,  on  a parcel  of 
feasting  and  foolery,  to  show  they’re  better  off  than  their  neighbours. 
However,  I don’t  mind  going.  I ben’t  churlish  ; I shan’t  refuse  to  go 
to  the  christening.” 

“If  we’re  asked,  John;”  said  his  wife.  “You  know  we  ben’t  such 
well-to-do  folks  as  the  Gays,  or  the  Mays  either.” 

“ I know  that,  fast  enough,  wife,  without  your  ’minding  me  on’t ; but 
that’s  the  way  with  you  women  ; a man’s  never  inclined  to  be  jolly,  and 
sociable  like,  and  willing  to  take  you  out  for  a bit  of  pleasure,  but 
you’re  sure  to  damp  him  with  some  of  your  confounded  meeknesses,  or 
prudences,  or  nonsenses  of  some  kind  or  another,  that  none  of  us  wants 
to  hear.” 


388 


MEG  AND  ALICE  J 


“ But  mayhap  they  will  ask  us said  Gilian ; “ for  Poll  says  all 
Windsor’s  to  be  there.  And  more  nor  that,  PolTs  main  clever  at 
getting  asked  to  every  merry-making  she  has  a mind  to  go  to,  and ” 

u And  that’s  to  every  one  of  ’em  growled  John. 

“ And  so,”  continued  his  wife,  regardless  of  the  interruption,  and 
anxious  to  make  up  for  the  ill-timed  remark  which  had  roused  her  hus- 
band’s ungracious  mood ; “ and  so,  our  Poll  shall  manage  to  get  us 
asked  to  the  christening,  as  well  as  herself.  Step  up  to  farmer  Gay’s 
and  see  if  they  want  any  one  to  hold  the  baby ; or  to  farmer  May’s,  and 
see  if  they  need  help  for  Joan  cook.  They’ll  be  busy  enow,  I’ll  warrant 
me,  at  both  houses,  just  now,  to  make  a handy  girl  like  you,  quite  a 
treasure  to  ’em.  Run,  Poll.” 

And  Poll  Quickly  went ; and  Poll  Quickly  contrived  so  well,  she 
was  so  zealous,  and  so  busy,  and  so  at  eveAy  body’s  beck  and  call,  during 
the  time  of  preparation,  when  all  hands  were  in  request  at  the  farm- 
houses, that  it  was  soon  an  understood  thing,  that  her  father  and 
mother  as  well  as  herself  were  to  be  among  the  guests  at  the  christen- 
ing. 

For  the  company  included  almost  all  grades,  from  the  substantial 
yeomen, — among  which  class  were  the  two  hosts  themselves, — down  to 
the  labourers  and  hinds  that  were  employed  on  their  farms.  Indeed 
there  were  not  wanting,  to  grace  the  feast,  personages  of  a still  higher 
rank,  who  vouchsafed  the  honor  of  their  presence  on  this  festive  occa- 
sion. There  was  a neighbouring  franklin  or  two, — wealthy  country 
gentlemen,  who,  with  their  wives,  thought  it  not  beneath  their  dignity  to 
appear  among  the  train  of  guests  assembled  by  such  respectable  towns- 
men as  farmer  Gay  and  farmer  May.  There  was  the  London  merchant, 
whose  dealings  for  wools  and  fleeces  brought  him  into  communication 
with  farmer  Gay.  There  was  the  great  metropolitan  corn-factor,  whose 
accounts  for  wheat  and  barley,  and  oats,  and  beans,  were  considerable 
with  farmer  May.  There  were  a few  smart  foplings  and  fine  city  gen- 
tlemen, now  in  attendance  on  the  court  staying  at  Windsor,  who  thought 
it  worth  while  to  give  the  distinction  of  their  presence,  in  return  for 
the  entertainment  of  a rustic  feast  on  a scale  of  rather  unusual  magni- 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


389 


tude.  There  was  the  good  curate,  Sir  Paul  Pureton ; the  worthy  school- 
master, Peter  Scriven  ; the  burly  brewer,  Balph  Barleybroth  ; the  merry 
maltster,  Nat  Kilnby ; the  roaring  butcher,  Dick  Cleaveholm ; the 
hearty  miller,  Guy  Netherstone ; the  little  barber,  Will  Patterly  ; be- 
side many  other  townsfolk,  and  numerous  country  acquaintances  for 
some  miles  round  about  Windsor,  together  with  labourers,  hinds,  farm 
and  household  servants,  and  their  respective  friends  and  gossips,  forming 
a goodly  company  in  all. 

In  order  that  fitting  respect  should  be  paid  to  those  guests  of  su- 
perior rank  who  had  honored  the  feast  by  their  presence,  a temporary 
dais  was  fitted  up  at  one  end  of  the  large  hall  where  the  tables  were 
laid,  and  a cross  board  was  spread  for  their  especial  accommodation,  while 
the  boundary  salt-cellar  was  placed  on  each  of  the  lateral  ones  ; but  for 
the  most  part,  ease,  good-humour,  frank  and  friendly  bearing  towards 
each  other,  was  the  order  of  the  day  ; mutual  kindliness,  warmth,  and 
heartiness  of  manner  prevailed.  Where  so  much  mirth  and  good 
abounded,  there  seemed  no  room  for  stiffness,  haughtiness,  or  pride  ; they 
seemed  by  general  consent  to  be  banished,  and  genial  fellowship  to  be 
convoked  in  their  stead,  that  nothing  might  be  wanting  to  the  perfect 
enjoyment  of  the  whole  company.  The  stout  oak  tables  were  far  too 
stout,  and  too  English  of  heart,  to  groan  beneath  the  burden  of  good 
things  with  which  they  were  laden ; but  they  well-nigh  split  with  laugh- 
ing, and  cracked  their  sides,  at  the  heaps  of  substantial  dainties  which 
were  piled,  and  close-jammed,  and  wedged  together,  with  not  a hair’s- 
breadth  space  between,  in  pitiless  profusion  upon  their  broad  plane. 
Dish  after  dish  smoked  upon  the  board ; and  still  dish  after  dish  came 
smoking  along  the  hall,  borne  by  grinning  trencher-men,  handed  by  red- 
cheeked damsels,  and  placed  in  endless  succession  upon  the  tables. 

First  came  the  lordly  boar’s  head  with  the  lemon  in  its  mouth,  racy 
and  piquant ; then  the  noble  sirloin  of  beef  garnished  with  boughs  and 
rosemary ; haunches  of  red  and  fallow  deer ; sucking-pigs  fed  daintily 
on  dates  and  muscadine,  and  stuffed  with  rich  puddings ; capons,  barn- 
door fowls,  turkeys,  geese,  and  boiled  mallards  ; a shield  of  brawn  with 
mustard  j roasted  neat’s  tongue,  and  chine  of  beef  j a goodly  and  chris* 


390 


MEG  AND  ALICE  J 


tian  gammon  of  bacon,  that  no  suspicion  of  J ewish  taint  might  be  there 
Nor  was  the  cook’s  skill  wanting  in  the  various  dishes  of  quaint  device ; 
as  the  red  herring  o’  horseback,  wherein  her  craft  had  shown  the  likeness 
of  a rider  galloping  away  through  a green  field,  which  was  cunningly 
represented  by  a corn  sallad ; pies  of  divers  kinds,  as  warden-pie,  olive- 
pie,  pippin-pie,  mince-pie,  and  baked  chewets  ; hog-liver  puddings,  veal- 
toasts,  carbonadoes,  pamperdy,  links,  fritters,  tansies,  and  quelques-cho- 
ses  ; jumbals,  leach-lombard,  custards,  or  dowsets  ; suckets,  wet  and  dry ; 
March-pane,  sugar-bread ; jellies  of  all  colours,  marmalades,  and  floren- 
tines ; as  well  as  juncates  and  dainty  confections,  spiced  and  richly 
sweetened,  of  quinces,  pomegranates,  oranges,  and  other  fruits,  with 
cream  or  sugar. 

That  all  space  might  be  given  to  the  dishes,  the  various  drinks  were 
placed  on  a sideboard,  whence  the  guests  were  supplied  with  whatsoever 
they  might  choose  to  call  for.  There  were  generous  wines  of  many  vin- 
tages ; those  quaffed  plain  in  their  native  excellence, — from  the  foreign 
luxuries  of  princeliest  sack  of  Xeres,  strong  sacks  of  Canary  and  Mala- 
ga, and  rich  muscadine,  to  the  home-made  delicacies  of  Ypocras,  Clary, 
and  Bracket ; those  concocted,  to  suit  other  palates ; some  sweetened 
with  sugar ; some  seasoned  with  lemon  and  spices ; some  brewed  into 
possets,  with  eggs  ; the  two  kinds  of  raisin-wine,  brown  and  white  bas- 
tard ; with  good  store  of  distilled  liquors,  such  as  rosa-solis,  and  aqua- 
vitae.  Ale  and  beer  were  in  profusion  ; from  the  stately  March  ale,  to 
simple  small  beer ; there  was  double  beer,  double-double  beer,  mum,  and 
dagger-ale  ; there  was  the  popular  huffcap  ale,  dear  to  the  common  lip  by 
such  familiar  titles  as  “ mad-dog,”  “ angel’s  food,”  and  u dragon’s-milk.” 
These  different  malt  drinks  were  also  to  be  found  choicely  compounded, 
as  well  as  the  wines  ; spiced,  and  sugared,  with  a toast  floating, — warm, 
and  mellow,  and  cordial.  There  was  not  absent  the  favorite  bowl  of 
spicy  nut-brown  ale,  called  Lamb’s  wool,  with  its  bobbing,  hissing,  roast- 
ed crabs,  or  apples,  and  the  sprig  of  rosemary  to  stir  and  impart  a flav- 
our. The  fruity  beverages  of  cider  and  perry  were  there  for  those  who 
chose  them  ; and  though  the  honey-made  metheglin  had  fallen  into  disre- 
pute, some  calling  it  “ little  better  than  swish- swash,”  yet  as  a Welsh 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


391 


family  of  the  name  of  Evans  had  lately  come  to  settle  at  Windsor,  and 
were  expected  to  be  present,  it  was  thought  well  to  have  metheglin  pro- 
vided, out  of  due  regard  to  the  well-known  national  predilection. 

The  feast  was  at  its  height ; the  dishes  were  all  set  on  table ; the 
door  that  had  so  frequently  opened  and  given  to  view  the  busy  cook  and 
her  helpers,  the  roaring  fire,  the  laden  spits,  the  steaming  pans,  the 
whole  paraphernalia  of  the  glowing  kitchen,  was  now  closed  ; the  trench- 
er-men and  damsels  ceased  going  and  coming  across  the  hall  with  dishes, 
and  confined  their  attention  to  the  tables,  round  which  they  perpetually 
hovered,  leaning  over  the  backs  of  the  guests,  reaching  platters,  hand- 
ing trenchers,  serving  drinks  ; carving,  helping,  pouring  wine,  frothing 
ale  ; now  jesting,  and  laughing,  with  the  guests,  when  they  good-humour- 
edly addressed  some  facetious  remark  to  them  ; now  shouting  and  bawl- 
ing directions  to  each  other.  At  its  height  was  the  jingling  of  glass  and 
china,  and  the  clinking  of  silver  flagons  and  goblets,  and  tankards,  at 
the  dais-table  ; at  its  height  was  the  clatter  of  pewter  platters,  and  dish- 
es, and  measures,  of  wooden  trenchers,  of  beechen  cups,  of  treen  ladles, 
of  horn  spoons,  at  the  long  tables, — especially  below  the  salt,  for  noise 
is  inseparable  from  enjoyment  among  the  less  well-bred ; at  its  height 
was  the  mirth  and  uproar  of  the  feasters,  when  Poll  Quickly  said  to  her 
father  and  mother, — or  rather  screamed  to  them,  for  it  was  as  difficult  to 
make  a person  hear  amid  all  that  riot  and  confusion,  as  the  remark  was 
safe  from  chance  of  reaching  the  ears  of  any  one  but  him  or  her  imme- 
diately addressed  : — “ Said  I not  sooth,  father,  when  I told  ye  ’twould 
be  a brave  feast  ?” 

“ Ay,  ay,  brave  enough  ! It’s  well  for  a farmer  to  get  on  thus  in  the 
world.  Lord  warrant  us  ! See  the  china  dishes,  and  the  silver  goblets, 
and  the  pewter  service,  that  have  taken  the  place  of  the  treen  platters 
and  plain  gear  that  would  ha’  served  an  honest  man’s  turn  in  my 
young  days,  e’en  at  the  upper  end  of  the  table ; now,  they  must  needs 
be  used  but  by  us  below  the  salt grunted  J ohn ; though  he  was  compelled 
to  growl  a little  above  his  usual  key  that  he  might  be  heard  in  reply. 

“ 0,  but  most  part  o’  they  fine  things,  the  plate,  and  the  china,  and 
the  glass,  are  borrowed  from  their  great  friends  said  Poll  Quickly  ; 


392 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ; 


adding,  with  all  the  precision  of  a gossip  proud  of  the  accuracy  of  her 
information,  “ the  parcel-gilt  flagon  came  from  Sir  Mark  Pursey’s  ; the 
six  tankards  from  Arden  Hall ; that  great  china  charger  was  lent  by 
lady  Fragilhurst ; and  the  cut  glass  goblets,  and  biggest  salt-cellar  by — ” 
“ I care  not  whence  they  came,  nor  who  lent  ’em,  lass  said  her 
father  ; “ I can  see  well  enow  that  the  Gays  and  the  Mays  are  rich  and 
well  to  do,  setting  aside  the  finery  of  the  tables.” 

66  The  pewter’s  all  theirs,  I know  for  surely persisted  Poll ; 
u dishes,  platters,  bowls,  spoons,  all  the  whole  service,  for  I helped  to 
scour  and  brighten  it  myself ; they  use  it  every  day ; the  treen  set,  and 
the  horn  spoons  are  only  for  the  servants.  But  just  look  at  mistress 
Barleybroth,  mother  ! There’s  a coif  and  pinners  ! Flanders  lace ; no 
less,  I’ll  assure  you ! And  see  what  a flaunting  ship-tire  Lady  Pursey 
wears  ! Bibbons  enow  to  stock  a mercer’s  booth  ! And  only  see  that 
gaunt  lad,  the  Welshman’s  son,  Hugh.  They  say  he’s  a parlous  scholar, 
and  knows  all  sorts  of  Latin  and  Greek  ; it  is  thought  that  if  he  goes 
on  as  he’s  begun,  he’ll  be  fit  to  do  both  Sir  Paul  Pureton’s  work,  and 
Peter  Scriven’s,  together, — priest  and  schoolmaster  in  one.  If  he’s  as 
sprag  at  learning,  as  he  is  at  eating,  marry,  I’ll  ensure  him  the  place, 
when  time  comes  for  the  two  old  men  to  die,  and  leave  him  to  stand  in 
their  shoes.  Bo  but  look  at  the  lumps  he  puts  in  his  mouth  ! It’s  like 
loading  a hayloft.  There’s  trusses  of  beef  and  salad  for  you  ! Mighty 
different  to  Will  Patterly  ! He  can’t  eat  for  watching  everybody  else. 
He  keeps  as  fidgety  a look-out  as  a bird  pecking  grain  ! But  he’s  a good 
soul  ; he  has  only  one  fault ; he  prates  too  much.” 

At  this  moment,  a loud  voice  rang  thro’  the  hall,  enjoining  silence ; 
and  then  the  principal  guest,  who  was  one  of  the  sponsors,  arose,  and 
proposed  a toast  to  the  health  of  the  two  mothers,  Mistress  Gay  and 
Mistress  May ; and  then  the  other  godfather  arose,  and  proposed  that 
health,  happiness,  and  long  life  to  the  two  new-made  Christians  should 
next  be  drunk ; and  then  amidst  the  waving  and  doffing  of  hats  (for  it 
was  at  that  time  esteemed  no  ill-breeding  to  sit  covered  during  meal- 
time) the  toasts  were  pledged  and  drunk  with  hearty  good  wishes  and 
much  enthusiasm. 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


393 


And  then,  the  two  babes  themselves  were  brought  in,  wrapped  in  their 
white  chrisom-cloths,  looking  very  red-faced,  and  staring,  as  if  wondering 
at  their  baptismal  honors  ; and  then,  the  twelve  apostle-spoons,  given  to 
little  Margaret  Gay  by  her  godfather,  and  the  four  evangelist-spoons, 
with  a silver-gilt  cup,  given  to  little  Alice  May  by  hers,  were  handed 
round  for  the  inspection  and  admiration  of  the  company.  And  then, 
once  again,  all  became  uproar  and  clamour  of  tongues  and  utensils  ; 
laughing  and  jesting,  and  eating  and  drinking,  proceeded  as  before. 

Next  succeeded  singing,  and  merry  tale-telling,  flirting,  gossiping ; 
and  then  the  tables  were  cleared,  that  dancing  and  sportive  games,  and 
all  the  more  active  species  of  merry-making  might  conclude  the  day.  At 
a late  hour,  well  pleased,  the  company  broke  up  ; and,  for  long  after,  the 
christening  of  Margaret  Gay  and  Alice  May,  was  cited  as  one  of  the 
most  notable  amongst  remembered  Windsor  festivals. 

In  course  of  time,  the  red-faced,  staring  babies  grew  to  be  two  of  the 
prettiest,  chubbiest,  rosiest  children  to  be  seen  in  all  the  country  round, 
for  many  a broad  Berkshire  mile.  Curly-haired,  bright-eyed,  red-lipped 
darlings  they  were ; and  two  of  the  merriest  little  grigs  that  ever  laughed 
the  careless,  happy,  hearty  laugh  of  childhood.  In  the  sweet  blue  eyes 
of  Alice  May,  the  cloudless  sky  of  midsummer  seemed  reflected ; and 
the  transience  of  an  April  shower  was  all  that  ever  sparkled  on  their 
lashes,  making  them,  if  possible,  brighter  still.  In  Margaret  Gay’s  clear 
hazel  eye,  danced  ever  glancing  light,  that  knew  no  rest  or  shadow,  save 
in  sleep. 

Nurtured  in  kindness  and  indulgence,  free  and  joyous,  their  child- 
hood years  were  a series  of  holidays,  uncheckered  by  a single  thwarting 
or  disturbance ; so  that  their  native  cheer  of  disposition  grew  ever  in 
liveliness,  good-humour,  and  pleasantry.  Their  looks  were  beaming; 
their  accents  were  mirthful ; their  gestures  were  all  vivacity.  They 
seemed  human  fairies  ; mortal  elves  of  health,  spirits,  and  frolic  youth ; 
fay-like,  airy  and  buoyant  in  their  behaviour, — of  child-like  substance  and 
proportion  in  their  well-moulded,  active,  flesh-and-blood  limbs.  Sprites 
might  boast  such  bewitching  playfulness  of  look  and  mien  ; but  nothing 
short  of  beauteous  childhood  itself  could  furnish  those  blue  veins,  that 
17* 


394 


MEG  AND  ALICE; 


threaded  the  white  temples  ; those  fresh  firm  cheeks,  so  round,  so  pulpy; 
that  breath  of  a dairy,  or  a new-mown  hay-mead ; those  mottled  arms, 
those  dimpled  hands,  so  plump,  soft,  and  smooth,  yet  so  springy  and 
elastic  beneath  the  pressure  of  touch  or  kiss.  In  sooth,  they  were  a 
couple  of  as  bonny  little  creatures  as  could  be  matched  in  all  merry 
England. 

Neighbours’  children  as  they  were,  both  of  an  age,  both  of  a sex,  both 
of  like  rank  in  life,  and  both  of  the  same  merry  temper,  it  befel,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  that  they  were  constant  companions,  and  shared  the 
same  plays,  the  same  pursuits,  the  same  thoughts,  the  same  likings  and 
dislikings ; they  shared  each  other’s  pleasures,  as  they  would  have 
shared  each  other’s  troubles,  had  there  been  any  to  share ; but  hitherto, 
joy  had  been  their  only  portion  ; the  very  crosses  and  vexations  common 
to  childhood,  seemed  spared  to  them,  and  what  might  come  near,  their 
own  happy  temper  rendered  pointless  to  sting  their  quiet. 

“ Alice  dear,  I’ve  come  to  fetch  ye said  Margaret  Gay,  at  the  gate 
of  farmer  May’s  garden,  one  fine  spring  morning ; “ Mother’s  lent  me 
two  of  the  new  dozen-bunch  of  horn  spoons  that  father  brought  her  from 
the  fair  lately;  so  let’s  away  to  the  moat  side,  and  have  a good  game  at 
making  dirt-pies.  I know  such  a brave  place,  where  we  shall  be  quite 
snug,  and  find  plenty  of  marl,  with  water  at  hand  from  the  castle-ditch.” 

It  was,  as  Margaret  had  described  it,  an  excellent  spot  for  their  pur- 
pose ; lying  a little  out  of  the  public  path,  and  screened  by  a copse  of 
hazels,  alders,  and  maple-trees.  Here,  they  played  for  some  time,  hap- 
pily enough,  making  between  them,  good  store  of  pies  ; with  raised 
crusts  of  kneaded  clay,  and  filled  with  flints,  and  pebbles,  and  moss,  and 
grass,  and  twigs,  to  represent  fish,  flesh,  fowl,  and  fruit,  with  condi- 
ments  and  seasoning  of  salt,  spices,  peppers,  and  herbs,  figured  by 
strewed  dust  and  sand. 

But  by-and-by,  they  were  disturbed  by  the  advent  of  Hodge  Bull- 
cub,  the  butcher’s  boy,  who  came  loitering  there,  to  wile  away  his  time, 
or  rather  his  master’s,  in  throwing  stones  into  the  moat,’ watching  the 
^wide-spread  circles  they  made,  listening  to  4heir  plunge,  and  trying  how 
far  he  could  jerk  them. 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


395 


“ I wish  he’d  go  away,  Meg  whispered  Alice  May ; “ he  splashes 
us  all  over  ; see  how  wet  my  frock  is.” 

“Suppose  we  tell  him;”  replied  Meg. 

“ I daren’t ;”  said  Alice ; “ he’s  such  a great  fierce  lad ; perhaps  he 
wouldn’t  like  to  he  told  to  go.” 

Just  then  a great  stone  came  plump  down,  only  a yard  or  two  from 
the  hank  where  the  two  children  knelt ; and,  falling  in  shallow  water, 
threw  up  quite  a fountain  of  splashes,  which  plentifully  showered  Meg 
and  Alice. 

u Take  care  what  you’re  about,  if  you  please  said  little  Margaret 
Gay ; “ if  you  don’t  mind,  some  of  those  stones  ’ll  hit  us  ; that  one  came 
very  near ; and  see  how  it  has  sprinkled  Alice  all  over.” 

“ What  do  I care  ?”  said  the  lout.  “ It’ll  make  her  grow ; and  spare 
her  standing  out  in  the  next  rain-shower.  She’s  little  enow  to  want 
something  that’ll  make  her  taller.” 

The  next  stone  fell  just  in  the  midst  of  the  dirt-pies,  and  demol- 
ished a grand  centre-dish  of  raised  crust,  ornamented  with  clay-paste 
devices,  that  had  cost  much  care  and  time. 

“ Oh  dear  !”  exclaimed  the  two  young  cooks,  both  at  once. 

“ I wish  you’d  move  farther  away,  if  you  must  throw  stones added 
Margaret. 

“ I shall  throw  ’em  just  where  I please  ; I’m  not  going  to  he  ordered 
off  by  two  chits  like  you,  don’t  think  it said  Bull-cub  ; “ I’ve  as  good  a 
right  to  play  here,  I suppose,  as  you  have.  I might  just  as  well  find  fault 
with  that  rubbish  you’re  doing  there.  Here,  what’s  all  this  ? dirt-pies  ? 
clay-puddings  ? hey  ?”  added  he,  coming  towards  the  spot  where  they 
were,  and  kicking  contemptuously  with  his  hob-nailed  shoes,  among  the 
pastry-marvels  they  had  achieved  with  so  much  pains. 

“ 0 don’t,  don’t ; you’re  breaking  my  goose-pie ; and  that’s  Meg’s 
herring-pie ; and — oh  dear,  don’t  spoil  that — that’s  our  warden-pie.”  Alice 
started  up,  and  threw  herself  against  Bull-cub,  in  her  eagerness  to  stay 
him  from  destroying  their  morning’s  work ; but  the  great  strong  lad  held 
her  at  arm’s  length,  contriving  to  kick  down  the  pies  one  after  the  other, 
pushing  their  ruins  into  the  moat  with  his  foot,  and  laughing  at  the  an- 


396 


MEG  AND  ALICE; 


ger  and  entreaties  of  the  two  children,  though  little  Meg  dealt  him  as 
lusty  cuffs  as  she  could  with  her  baby  arm. 

In  the  struggle  to  effect  his  wanton  exercise  of  power,  the  brutal  hob- 
bedehoy  leaned  so  heavily  over  towards  little  Alice,  that  she  lost  her 
balance,  slipped  down  the  shelving  ground,  and  fell  into  the  water,  which, 
however,  was  luckily  but  shallow  just  there.  Margaret  screamed  aloud, 
ceased  thumping  Bull-cub,  who  ran  off, — and  was  about  to  dart  to  Alice’s 
assistance,  when  she  saw  two  boys  she  knew  well,  neighbours’  sons,  com- 
ing towards  the  spot.  She  just  shouted  to  them,  “ Hodge  Bull-cub  has 
pushed  Alice  May  into  the  castle-ditch,”  and  then  flew  down  the  bank  to 
help  her  friend. 

u I see  him,  the  rascal,  making  off  among  the  trees  said  one  of  the 
boys  ; u but  I’ll  soon  be  up  with  him,  and  give  him  as  sound  a thrashing 
as  ever  he  had  in  his  life.” 

“ Bo,  Frank,  and  I’ll  help  the  girls  said  the  other  boy  ; u the  wa- 
ter isn’t  deep  here  ; I’ll  soon  have  her  out.” 

But  long  before  this  speech  was  finished,  Frank  had  sprung  after  the 
butcher’s  boy  to  execute  his  well-deserved  sentence. 

The  other  boy  found  the  two  little  girls  hand-in-hand  ; one  close  by  the 
edge,  trying  to  tug  her  out  of  the  water,  in  which  the  latter  stood,  up  to 
her  waist ; having  fortunately  fallen  in  such  a position,  that  she  could 
readily  scramble  to  her  feet,  though  she  could  not  draw  them  from  the 
muddy  bottom  in  which  they  stuck. 

u Give  me  your  other  hand,  Alice  May,”  said  the  boy,  seeing  how 
matters  stood  ; “ now  then,  pull  away,  heartily,  Margaret,  and  we’ll  soon 
have  her  out.” 

But  not  so  soon,  could  they  succeed  in  extricating  her;  first  one  foot, 
then  the  other,  stuck  fast,  then  she  slipped  down  on  her  knee,  and  souse 
went  she  into  the  water  again. 

“ Can’t  you  contrive  to  slip  your  feet  out  of  your  shoes  ? never  mind 
your  shoes  ! leave  them  stuck  fast,  so  that  we  get  you  out !”  said  the  boy. 

“ 0,  I’ve  long  ago  lost  my  shoes  said  she  laughing  ; “ Stay ; now  I 
think  I’ve  got  my  right  foot  clear.  Now,  pull !” 

“ W ell,  make  a good  stride,  and  plant  your  foot  on  the  firmest  place 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


397 


you  can  find ; here,  here’s  a gravelly  spot ! Now  then,  hold  tight ! Grasp 
our  hands  well ! Haul  away,  Margaret ! Here  she  is  ! Safe  ashore  !” 
Alice  once  landed,  they  all  three  made  the  best  of  their  way  to 
farmer  May’s,  that  Alice  might  be  put  into  a warm  bed  without  delay ; 
and  then  mistress  May  made  little  Meg  hasten  home,  that  she  might 
change  her  clothes,  which  were  very  wet,  too  ; and  then  the  boy,  thanked 
and  lauded  by  both  families,  for  the  help  he  had  given  their  darlings  in 
their  need,  went  to  look  after  his  companion,  whom  he  had  left  in  pursuit 
of  Bull-cub. 

He  found  him  just  emerging  from  the  copse,  . ooking  hot  and  flushed, 
but  victorious  ; though  the  butcher-boy  was  half  again  as  big  as  himself. 

“ I’ve  given  the  hawbuck  such  a drubbing  as  I think  he  won’t  forget 
in  a hurry,”  said  Frank  ; “ he  can  bluster  enough  to  little  girls,  but  he 
can  only  blubber  and  yelp,  like  a cur  as  he  is,  when  he  has  to  deal  with 
boys.  I left  him  howling,  as  our  hound  does  at  the  moon ; and  with 
great  big  tears  rolling  down  his  nose.  But  how  did  you  get  on,  George, 
with  the  girls — the  two  children  ?” 

“ I found  them  laughing  as  heartily,  as  your  lout  was  crying,”  said 
George  ; “ they’re  two  merry-hearted  little  souls — -nothing  puts  them 
out — not  even  a souse  in  the  castle-ditch.” 

“ Did  they  both  tumble  in?”  said  Frank. 

u No,  only  one  said  George;  “but  there  they  both  were,  roaring 
a-laughing — the  one  pulling,  the  other  being  pulled — both  dripping  wet, 
and  bespattered  with  mud — but  laughing  fit  to  kill  themselves  at  the 
pickle  they  were  in.  Little  Alice,  with  her  bright  flaxen  hair  all  blown 
off  her  face,  and  showing  her  pearly  rows  of  teeth  between  those  coral 
lips  of  hers,  looked  like  a young  mermaid,  as  she  stood  giggling,  and 
struggling,  and  slipping  about,  waist-deep  in  water.  You  should  have 
seen  her — and  how  heartily  Meg  was  helping  her,  with  all  her  little 
might,  laughing  as  much  as  pulling.  You  should  have  seen  them  !” 

“ I wish  I had  !”  said  Frank.  “ I wish  I had’nt  run  after  that  chap, 
but  had  stayed  with  you  to  help  Meg  and  Alice ; I half  envy  you  your 
share  of  the  adventure.” 

u You  need’nt ; yours  was  by  far  the  most  glorious returned 


398 


MEG  AND  ALICE  J 


George ; u you  pursued  the  brute  of  a giant,  and  overcame  him  ; I hadn’t 
even  the  merit  of  succouring  the  distressed  damsels, — for  they  weren’t 
at  all  distressed.  You  had  the  peril  of  the  fight — I hadn’t  that  of  the 
flood — it  was  only  mud.  It’s  evident,  that  they  also  thought  you  had 
chosen  the  worst  job,  for  little  Alice  popped  her  head  out  of  the  bed- 
clothes, as  her  mother  was  tucking  her  up,  to  bid  me  mind  and  thank 
Frank  Ford  for  going  after  Bull-cub  to  teach  him  better  manners,  as  she  was 
sure  he  would  now  be  afraid  to  meddle  with  or  worry  them  any  more.” 

“ She’s  a good  little  soul — as  gentle  as  she’s  gay said  Frank  j 
u that’s  certain.” 

Some  time  after  that,  an  opportunity  occurred  for  Frank’s  being  as 
completely  the  hero  of  an  adventure  where  one  of  these  little  girls  was 
concerned,  as  he  himself  could  have  desired.  It  happened,  that  Alice 
May  was  going  to  gather  king-cups  in  Datchet  mead,  and  she  as  usual 
went  to  fetch  her  little  neighbour  and  playmate  to  go  with  her ; but  it 
so  fell  out,  that  Margaret  Gay  was  wanted  at  the  farm,  that  morning,  by 
her  mother,  who  was  busy  making  cowslip  wine,  and  had  set  her  little 
girl  to  pluck  the  yellow  blossoms  out  of  their  pale  green  cups.  Alice 
would  have  stayed  with  Meg,  to  help  her  in  her  pretty  fragrant  task,  but 
her  friend  whispered  her  to  go  and  gather  the  king-cups  all  the  same, 
and  that  she’d  get  leave  to  come  in  the  afternoon  and  help  to  make  them 
up  in  posies  and  garlands,  as  first  intended.  Alice  accordingly  took  her 
basket  again,  and  trudged  off  to  the  field,  where  she  was  soon  up  to  her 
chin  in  butter-cups,  daisies,  meadow-sweet,  eye-bright,  ragged-robbins,  and 
tall  waving  grasses,  flowery  and  feathery  in  all  their  lush  vernal  blos- 
soming. She  was  so  busily  engaged  cropping  armfuls  of  the  gay  wild- 
flowers,  and  heaping  them  into  her  basket,  hoping  to  get  it  quickly  filled, 
and  return  to  help  Meg,  that  she  was  not  aware  of  a wizened  little  old 
woman  who  stood  close  by,  watching  her.  But  presently  the  shadow 
cast  upon  the  shining  grass,  caught  the  child’s  attention,  and  she  sud- 
denly looked  up,  and  saw  two  grey  watery  eyes  fixed  upon  her  ; a pair 
of  wrinkled  cheeks,  which  sank  and  distended  ; shrivelled  lips,  that 
mumped,  and  parted,  and  quivered  ; and  a withered  hand  stretched  forth, 
looking  like  a bird’s  claw — so  skinny,  so  ash-coloured,  and  so  dry. 


THE  MEIER, Y MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


399 


The  child’s  head  involuntarily  shrank  from  the  talons  with  which 
this  claw  was  appropriately  garnished  ; and  the  old  woman  said : — 

“ What  pretty  golden  hair  you’ve  got ! It’s  as  bright  as  your  king- 
cups ! Will  ye  give  me  a lock,  my  pretty  dear  ?” 

The  claw  fumbled  in  a pouch,  from  which  it  presently  drew  forth 
some  glittering  instrument. 

“ I would,  and  welcome,”  said  Alice  ; “ but  father  don’t  like  to  have 
my  hair  cut — he  says  he  likes  to  look  at  it,  and  can’t  spare  a bit  off. 
Meg  told  me  she  heard  him  say  he  was  very  proud  of  his  little  Alice’s 
long  locks.  So,  please,  don’t  touch  it.” 

The  claw  was  just  about  to  dart  out,  and  make  another  clutch  ; but 
at  that  moment, — shrilly  whistling  as  he  came  along  the  path  that  lay 
not  far  from  the  spot  where  Alice  and  the  old  woman  stood, — Hodge 
Bull-cub  appeared  in  sight.  The  butcher’s  boy  paused  an  instant,  gap- 
ing and  staring  across  the  tall  grass,  to  make  out  who  formed  the  group 
he  saw  ; but  apparently  soon  satisfied,  he  gave  a short  laugh,  resumed 
his  piercing  whistle,  and  sauntered  on. 

u It’s  too  nigh  the  public  way,  here muttered  the  crone ; then, 
aloud,  she  said: — “I’ve  got  something  brave  to  show  ye,  my  dear,  at  my 
house,  if  you’ll  come  there — it’s  not  far  off — only  down  by  the  forest-edge, 
close  to  the  blasted  thorn-tree ; come,  I’ll  lead  ye  there  in  three  minutes.” 
“ I can’t  come  now,  for  I promised  to  take  Meg  these  flowers,  and 
we’re  going  to  make  posies  together  ; but  perhaps  this  evening, — what’.s 
the  brave  thing  you’ve  got  to  show  me  ?”  said  the  child. 

“ A string  of  amber  beads,  as  bright  and  pretty  as  your  hair,  my 
dear  ; you  shall  have  ’em  for  a necklace,  if  you’ll  come  with  me.”  And 
the  shrunk  lips  puckered  and  mumped,  and  the  grey  eye  twinkled. 

“ I should  like  to  see  them,  but  ” — and  little  Alice  looked  round  in 
perplexity ; then  joyfully  added  ; — “ 0,  there’s  Frank  Ford  coming,  he’ll 
carry  home  my  basket  for  me,  I know,  and  then  I can  go  with  you. 
Frank  ! Frank  ! ” 

The  little  girl  ran  towards  him,  as  she  saw  him  leap  over  the  little 
stile  into  the  field  where  she  was;  and  hastily  telling  him  what  she 
wished  him  to  do,  and  where  she  was  going,  she  put  the  basket  in  his 


400 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ! 


hands,  and  hegged  him  to  give  it  safely  into  Margaret  Gay’s  keeping, 
with  the  assurance  that  she  herself  would  soon  be  with  her.  Then  she 
hurried  back  to  the  old  woman,  who  had  followed  her  brisk  movements 
with  some  anxiety  lest  she  should  not  return  ; but  who  now,  beckoning 
Alice  to  follow,  took  her  way  through  the  grass  into  the  lane  which  led 
to  the  forest. 

For  some  time  they  walked  thus,  the  old  woman  leading  the  way 
through  the  least-frequented  paths  and  bye-ways  ; all  the  time  talking 
in  a shrill  gasping  voice,  that  whistled  through  her  few  teeth,  like  wind 
through  a key-hole,  telling  the  child  of  the  beautiful  things,  and  the 
nice  sweeties  she  had  got  in  her  house  for  her. 

As  they  reached  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  they  came  to  a wooden  nut, 
all  grown  about  with  lichens,  and  mosses,  and  brambles.  It  had  but  one 
window  and  a door.  This  letter,  the  old  woman  opened  with  a key  she 
took  from  her  pouch  ; and  when  she  had  unlocked  it,  she  drew  forth  the 
key,  and  took  it  inside  with  them ; entering  with  little  Alice,  fastening 
the  door  again,  and  putting  the  key  into  her  pocket. 

The  child  noticed  nothing  of  all  this,  so  eager  was  she  to  see  the  fine 
things  she  had  heard  of ; and  said : — •“  Well,  where  are  the  amber  beads, 
goody  2 And  the  sugar-sticks,  and  the 

“ Oh,  they’re  all  in  that  Qupboard,  my  dear said  the  crone  ; “ but 
first,  I’m  going  to  tell  you  how  kind  I mean  to  be.  How  should  you 
like  to  live  here  always  with  me,  hey,  my  dear  ?” 

“ No/.'  at  all said  Alice;  “ I like  to  live  with  father  and  mother, 
and  near  to  Meg.” 

“Well  then,  I’m  going  to  be  so  kind  as  to  let  you  go  home  to  them, 
when  you’ve  given  me  your  hair,  little  flaxen-poll said  the  old  woman 
with  a grin. 

u But  I told  you,  I couldn’t  give  you  my  hair,”  said  Alice  ; “ father 
likes  it.” 

“ How  should  you  like  to  take  off  that  pretty  kirtle,  and  let  me  have 
it  to  make  a hood  with  ; hey,  my  dear  2” 

u Not  at  all said  Alice  ; “ I can’t  spare  it.” 

“Well  then;  I’m  going  to  be  so  kind  as  to  let  you  keep  it  still, 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


401 


instead  of  having  it  to  cover  my  grey  hairs  with,  after  you’ve  let  me 
cut  off  your  golden  ones,  little  fair-locks said  the  crone,  hideously 
jocular  as  before. 

“ But  I’m  not  going  to  let  you said  Alice  stoutly  ; “ I told  you  so 
before.” 

“A’n’t  ye,  though?  We’ll  soon  see  that;”  said  the  old  woman, 
clutching  Alice’s  shoulder  in  her  claw,  which  closed  upon  it,  like  an 
eagle’s,  and  drawing  her  between  her  knees  as  she  sat,  held  her  fast 
prisoner. 

Alice  shrieked  aloud. 

u If  you  give  such  another  yell  as  that,  you  young  imp,  I’ll  jab  these 
scissors  into  your  eye,  or  thrust  ’em  down  your  throat,  or  stick  ’em  in 
your  heart,  instead  of  clipping  your  hair  with  ’em,  as  I’m  so  kind  as  only 
to  be  going  to  do said  the  crone  ; u so  you’d  best  be  quiet,  I advise 
ye  ; and  its  very  kind  of  me  to  advise  you,  when  I might  kill  ye,  if  I 
chose  it.  So  d’ye  mind,  let’s  have  no  more  screeching,  but  stand  quiet 
while  I cut ” 

Here,  just  as  the  old  woman  brandished  her  weapon,  and  was  about 
to  sever  the  first  lock  of  the  spoil  she  so  gloatingly  coveted,  her  raised 
hand  was  suddenly  suspended  by  a loud  knock,  as  of  a cudgel  on  the 
door  of  the  hut.  The  old  woman  gasped  a deep  curse ; her  knees  re- 
laxed an  instant,  in  her  surprise,  and  Alice  sprang  from  between  them, 
uttering  shriek  upon  shriek. 

At  that  moment,  the  casement  of  the  single  low  window  was  flung 
back,  and  Frank  Ford,  cudgel  in  hand,  leaped  into  the  room. 

u What  are  ye  doing  to  hurt  little  Alice  May  ?”  said  the  boy,  con- 
fronting the  old  woman,  and  placing  the  child  behind  him. 

“ I was  doing  nothing  to  hurt  her,  young  master  said  the  crone, 
mumping  and  grinning  in  her  former  coaxing  fashion ; “ I was  going  to 
be  very  kind  to  her.” 

“ Kind  ! ” exclaimed  Alice. 

“ Kind  ! ” echoed  Frank,  with  flashing  eyes.  “ What  made  her  scream, 
then?  Odd  sort  of  kindness,  to  make  her  scream  !” 

11  How  can  I help  a child’s  whims,  that  screeches  if  you’re  trying  to 


402 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ; 


be  kind?  That  won’t  let  you  be  kind,  try  as  hard  as  you  will?  That’s 
odd  if  you  please  ! ” said  the  old  crone.  “ And  if  you  come  to  that,  how 
dare  you  break  into  my  house,  you  young  whipper-snapper,  laying  about 
you  with  your  cudgel,  rapping  and  rending,  tearing  and  driving,  ham- 
mering my  doors  down,  dashing  my  windows  in,  and  frightening  a 
poor  old  woman  out  of  her  wits  ? Pack  ! Tramp  ! Begone  with  ye  ! 
Out  of  my  house,  this  instant,  both  of  you !” 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  to  the  door,  unlocked  it,  flung  it  wide  open, 
and  before  Frank  and  Alice  had  recovered  their  amazement  ^t  her  wild 
manner,  now  whining  and  cringing,  now  violent  and  angry,  they  found 
themselves  out  in  the  forest,  thrust  forth,  by  those  withered  hands  that 
shook  with  age  and  passion. 

Frank  looked  at  Alice ; Alice  looked  at  him,  and  then  burst  out 
a-laughing. 

u I’m  glad  to  see  you  laugh he  said ; u I thought  you  were  fright- 
ened.” 

“ So  I was  said  she. 

“ You  screamed  like  a caught  hare ; and  you  were  all  of  a tremble, 
when  I got  into  the  room  said  Frank  ; “ yet  you’re  laughing  now.” 

“ I was  frightened  enough  then,  while  she’d  got  me  in  one  hand,  and 
the  scissors  in  the  other,  telling  me  she’d  poke  ’em  in  my  eye,  if  I didn’t 
stand  still said  Alice  ; u but  now  I can’t  help  laughing  to  think  of  her 
pushing  us  out  of  the  house,  as  if  it  was  any  punishment  to  be  turned 
out ! Why,  all  I wanted,  was  to  get  away.  ” 

“ Or  I either  said  Frank  ; “ though, — talking  of  punishment — I 
should  like  to  have  her  punished ; and  I hope  I shall,  too.  I’ll  speak  to 
father  about  it,  directly  I get  home.  But  how  came  you  to  go  with  her 
at  all,  Alice  ?” 

Little  Alice  told  him  exactly  how  all  had  happened  ; and  then  asked 
him  how  it  was  that  he  came  to  be  at  the  hut,  also. 

u When  you  left  me  with  the  basket,”  replied  he,  u I turned  back  to 
take  it,  as  you  asked  me,  to  Margaret  Gay ; and  had  got  some  way  across 
the  fields  to  Windsor,  when  I thought  to  ask  myself  the  question  who 
was  the  old  woman  I had  left  you  with.  I remembered  that  I had  never 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


403 


seen  her  before — that  she  seemed  a perfect  stranger  hereabouts — that  the 
place  you  told  me  you  were  going  to,  with  her,  didn’t  bear  a very  good 
name — for  the  hut  has  been  said  to  harbour  gypsies,  deer-stealers,  and 
other  such  vagabonds,  upon  occasion.  Then  it  suddenly  came  into  my 
head  that  the  old  woman  herself,  had  not  the  most  pleasant  of  looks  ; 
and  then  I thought  of  what  you  had  said  about  her  promising  you  some 
beads,  or  something ; and  thereupon  I bethought  me  of  what  I had  heard 
tell  of  wicked  creatures  luring  fair-haired  children  into  bye-places,  that 
they  might  rob  them  of  what  would  prove  golden  booty  in  supplying  the 
court-rage  for  yellow  locks.  In  short,  I couldn’t  help  working  myself 
into  a belief  that  you  had  fallen  into  just  such  hands  ; so,  cutting  my- 
self a good  ash  stick  out  of  the  hedge,  in  which  I had  carefully  stowed 
away  your  basket  of  flowers,  that  we  might  find  it  all  safe,  on  our  way 
back,  I set  off  as  fast  as  I could  in  pursuit  of  you  and  the  old  woman, 
and  arrived  just  in  time,  to  save  your  little  flaxen  head  from  her  clut- 
ches. It  would  have  been  a pity,  a lambkin  like  you,  should  have  been 
shorn  by  such  a scraggy  old  vulture  as  that  ! ” 

“ Father  will  thank  you  for  saving  his  lamb’s  golden  fleece,  as  I 
thank  you  for  saving  my  eye,  or  my  throat,  perhaps  both,  from  her  scis- 
sors said  little  Alice  ; “ it  was  very  kind,  and  very  bold  of  you,  Frank, 
to  venture  for  me.  ” 

When  Frank’s  father,  and  farmer  May,  and  some  of  their  men,  went 
to  the  hut  on  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  in  search  of  the  old  hag,  they 
found  the  place  deserted ; not  a trace  of  the  old  woman,  or  of  any  one 
else,  was  there ; nor  was  she  ever  afterwards  seen  in  that  part  of  the 
country. 

Master  Ford,  Frank’s  father,  was  a thriving  lawyer  at  Windsor.  He 
made  round  sums  and  put  them  by  carefully ; so  that  he  grew  to  be  very 
rich ; and  men  said  he  deserved  his  gains,  for  they  were  made  not  only 
cleverly,  but  honestly.  He  would  settle  his  neighbours’  disputes  as 
equitably  and  as  speedily  as  might  be,  and  he  as  often  did  this  by  per- 
suading them  not  to  go  to  law,  as  by  conducting  their  cause  in  court. 
He  made  up  nearly  as  many  quarrels  as  any  single  man  of  his  craft 
usually  busies  himself  in  fomenting ; and  he  made  pretty  nigh  as  much 


404 


MEG  AND  ALICE  J 


money  by  amicable  adjustment  and  private  umpirage,  as  other  attorneys 
by  bickering  and  equivocating,  brow-beating  witnesses,  ferreting  out 
flaws,  and  bringing  about  unjust  verdicts. 

He  had  four  sons,  all  of  whom  he  hoped  to  provide  for,  by  settling 
them  worthily  and  prosperously  in  life.  Three  of  them  he  meant  should 
learn  a trade  each  ; but  his  eldest  boy,  Frank,  in  whom  he  thought  he 
perceived  a promise  of  good  parts,  and  a capability  of  superior  breeding, 
he  resolved  should  have  the  advantage  of  a university  education,  that  he 
might  be  fitted  for  following  his  own  profession,  or  any  other  he  might 
prefer. 

Master  Page,  George’s  father,  was  a substantial  yeoman ; he  was 
farmer  or  bailiff,  to  Sir  Marmaduke  Ducandrake,  who  owned  the  finest 
estate  thereabouts.  He  was  a large  burly  man,  with  a ruddy  complex- 
ion, that  bespoke  a hearty  appetite,  a warm  purse,  and  constant  living  in 
the  open  air.  It  was  whispered  that  he  was  worth  a mint  of  money,  and 
that  he  could  have  bought  his  employer  over  and  over  again  ; for  Sir 
Marmaduke  was  an  extravagant  courtier,  a spendthrift  and  a gambler ; 
one  who  thought  nothing  of  investing  all  the  fleeces  of  a sheep-shearing 
in  a court-suit,  of  wasting  a quarter’s  rents  on  a court-masque,  or  of  stak- 
ing a whole  copse  of  oaks  upon  a card  at  primero.  When  the  fleeces, 
the  rents,  or  the  oaks  had  to  be  suddenly  converted  into  ready-money, 
Master  Page  was  the  alchemist  to  transmute  them ; it  was  his  gold 
which  supplied  the  courtier’s  need  ; and  it  may  be  believed  that  the  cru- 
cible, his  pocket,  did  not  yield  its  treasure  without  contriving  to  retain 
a due — or  more  than  a due  residuum  of  the  material  employed. 

As  Sir  Marmaduke’s  property  waned,  Master  Page’s  store  waxed  fat 
and  increased.  The  knight’s  patrimony  dwindled  ; while  the  yeoman’s 
farm  swelled  into  a goodly  bulk  of  acres.  The  two  men’s  persons'  were 
like  their  land.  The  one  was  a pale,  lean,  stick  of  a man — with  hollow 
eyes,  wan  cheeks,  and  enervated  limbs,  telling  a plain  tale  of  squandered 
energies,  sleepless  nights,  drowsy  days, — life  wasted  in  folly  and  de- 
bauchery. The  other  was  a hale,  robust,  portly  man,  with  a trunk  like 
an  oak,  an  arm  like  a staff ; a step  firm  and  steady,  the  eye  of  a hawk, 
the  grip  of  a vice,  and  a chest  as  ample  as  his  barns  and  granaries,  while 
the  purse  at  his  girdle  was  as  well  filled  as  they. 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OP  WINDSOR. 


405 


Master  Page  was  no  less  able  than  his  neighbour  Master  Ford  to 
have  sent  his  son  to  the  university;  but  the  worthy  agriculturist,  like 
many  of  his  class,  had  slight  respect  for  book-husbandry,  and  resolved 
that  George  should  be  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a farmer,  like  his  fa- 
ther before  him. 

u My  boy  shall  know  how  to  stock  land,  plant  trees,  cart  a crop,  till 
a field,  and  reap  a corn-harvest,  with  the  veriest  ploughman  that  ever 
trod  a furrow,”  said  he,  once,  to  his  neighbour  Ford ; “ and  that’s  the 
way,  I take  it,  to  raise  as  fine  a fortune  as  ever’s  to  be  digged  out  of  the 
pages  of  Virgil — for  all  he  wrote  a fine  book  upon  farming,  as  I’ve  heard 
tell.” 

Frank  Ford  was  not  a little  proud  of  the  distinction  conferred  by 
his  father’s  determination  to  send  him  to  college.  He  felt  that  he  was 
at  once  raised  to  a higher  grade  in  society  by  this  circumstance,  for  it 
was  a mode  of  education  chiefly  confined  to  the  sons  of  noblemen,  and 
gentlemen,  or  those  of  very  wealthy  parents. 

His  young  Windsor  friends  thought  he  gave  himself  airs  upon  it, 
and  that  he  treated  them  a little  cavalierly,  when  he  returned  home  for 
the  vacations ; but  George  Page,  who  was  of  a frank,  open  disposition, 
and  rarely  suspected  anything  amiss  in  his  associates, — giving  them  cre- 
dit for  being  as  guileless  and  well-meaning  as  himself,— maintained  that 
Frank  was  the  same  good  fellow  as  ever. 

Not  so,  Margaret  Gay  and  Alice  May, — who  now  growing  to  be  tall 
girls,  yet  lost  no  jot  of  their  merry-hearted  sprightly  humour, — thought 
their  former  playmate  had  no  right  to  assume  the  tone  of  superiority, 
which  they  chose  to  discover  in  him.  They  persisted  in  calling  his  in- 
creased height  and  growth,  stateliness  ; his  more  thoughtful  look,  con- 
tempt for  their  ignorance,  and  his  gravity,  sheer  insult.  He,  in  turn, 
complained  that  they  were  altered ; that  they  no  longer  received  him  so 
cordially  as  they  formerly  did ; that  they  excluded  him  from  their 
games ; and  treated  him  stiffly,  and  as  a comparative  stranger,  when 
they  met. 

“ You  are  no  longer  the  same  girls  ; you  are  quite  changed  ; ” said 
he  to  them  one  evening,  when  they  all  chanced  to  meet  in  the  wood, 
a-nutting ; “ you  don’t  seem  glad  to  see  me  back  ; you  don’t  shake  hands 


406 


MEG  AND  ALICE! 


with  me  as  you  used.  You  wouldn’t  treat  George  Page  so,  if  he  went 
to  college,  and  came  home  to  spend  the  vacation.” 

“ Nang-nang-yah  ! ” said  Meg,  mocking  his  tones  of  injured  in- 
nocence, and  making  a face  at  him.  “ He  thinks  himself  very  grand, 
forsooth,  because  he’s  been  at  college;  and  that  he’s  at  liberty  now,  to 
school  us  as  much  as  he  thinks  fit,  since  he’s  taken  a degree  in  university 
birch.  Many’s  the  time  he’s  had  that  honor,  I’ll  be  bound,  though  not 
oftener  than  such  a scholar  deserved.  But  we  don’t  care  for  his  fine 
tutoring,  do  we,  Alice  ? ” said  she,  bursting  out  a-laughing. 

“ No,  to  be  sure  ! ” said  Alice,  laughing  too  ; but  her  echo  of  her 
friend’s  laugh  was  rather  a faint  one  ; for  she  half  pitied  Frank,  as  he 
stood  there,  disconcerted,  biting  his  lips,  and  eyeing  his  two  laughing 
enemies,  as  if  he  longed  to  cuff  them,  but  couldn’t,  for  manliness  sake. 
Besides,  she  was  a little  touched  by  remembering  how  he  had  more  than 
once  stood  her  friend  in  those  former  times  to  which  he  referred. 

cc  And  he  must  needs  twit  poor  George,  too ; ” continued  Meg ; 
66  because,  forsooth,  he  doesn’t  go  to  the  university  as  well  as  the  young 
squire.” 

“ I never  twitted  George ; ” said  Frank  Ford. 

“ Didn’t  you  ? ” said  Meg.  u What  did  you  mean,  then,  by  bringing 
him  in,  when  you  said  we  wouldn’t  have  treated  him  so,  if  he  had  been 
to  college,  and  come  back  ? Unless  it  is  that  you’re  such  a jealous- 
pate  that  you  grudge  him  our  liking,  which  he  has  never  done  anything 
to  lose.” 

u And  pray  what  have  I done  to  lose  it,  pretty  Mistress  Meg  ? ” 
said  Frank. 

“ What  have  you  done  ? Why  a great  deal, — everything  ! A’n’t 
you  now  acting  the  young  man,  and  the  collegian,  truly,  with  us  % 
Calling  us  £ pretty,’  and  £ mistress,’  as  if  you  were  a grown  man,  and  we, 
poor  little  chits.  Marry,  I shouldn’t  wonder,  if  you  had  impudence 
enough  to  teach  us  Greek  and  Latin,  only  to  show  off  what  you’ve 
learnt.  As  if  nothing  was  to  be  learnt  anywhere  else  but  at  college ! 
However,  whatever  they  may  teach  there,  they  don’t  teach  modesty  and 
pleasant  manners,  that’s  a sure  thing.  And  another  sure  thing  is, 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


407 


that,  whatever  folks  learn  there,  they  don’t  learn  to  make  themselves 
agreeable.” 

Tossing  her  head,  she  turned  away  ; while  Frank  muttered,  u And 
stay-at-home  wenches  learn  to  be  pert,  if  they  remain  as  ignorant  as 
sheep,  in  all  besides.” 

“ There ! there’s  one  of  your  fine  college  words  ! ” she  exclaimed, 
over-hearing  him,  and  looking  back.  “ There  ! you  call  us  4 wenches  ’ — 
your  old  friends  and  neighbours,  Alice  and  Meg  ! We  changed — we 
altered  ! ’Tis  you  that  are  grown  out  of  knowledge,  master  Frank. 
But  we’ll  try  and  remember  you,  won’t  we,  Alice  ? We’ll  not  forget 
you  ! We’ll  match  you,  some  day  or  other,  for  your  grand  airs,  depend 
on’t.  The  ‘ wenches  ’ won’t  break  their  hearts  about  it,  I dare  say,  for 
all  you  are  so  changed.” 

With  another  laugh, — tho’  there  was  a spice  of  vexation  in  it,  that 
marred  its  heartiness, — Meg  went  away,  linking  her  arm  in  Alice’s, 
and  drawing  her  with  her,  notwithstanding  all  George  Page  could  say  to 
induce  them  to  stay,  and  to  make  peace  with  Frank  Ford. 

“ I’ve  no  patience  with  him,  I declare  ! ” muttered  Margaret  Gay, 
as  she  walked  on  hurriedly;  “A  puffed-up  jackanapes  ! A conceited 
puppy  ! To  give  himself  such  airs  ! 4 Wenches,’  forsooth  ! ” 

u I’m  afraid  we  provoked  him  to  that,  Meg  ! ” observed  Alice,  as  she 
tried  to  keep  pace  with  her  angry  friend. 

u And  I suppose  George  Page  provoked  my  lord  squire,  too  ? ” 
pouted  Meg.  “ He  must  be  sneered  at,  also,  by  this  fine  college  princox, 
this  musty-brained,  book-worming  sprig  of  scholarship,  must  he  ? But  I’ll 
be  even  with  him,  see  if  I don’t ! I’ll  fit  him  for  books,  I warrant  you  ! 
I’ll  sauce  him  with  doggrel,  that  shall  be  tougher  to  puzzle  out,  than  all 
his  trumpery  Homer  and  stuff ; which,  I’ll  be  bound  to  say,  he  prates  of 
more  th&n  he  knows.” 

“ How  you  rave,  Meg  ! ” said  Alice,  smiling. 

u I’ll  not  rave  more  than  I’ll  brave  ; ” said  Meg.  “ I’m  determined 
I’ll  plague  him  for  his  boy-pedantry,— ridiculous  in  a young  fellow  like 
him,  with  scarce  more  down  on  his  lip,  than  you  or  I have.  Let  me  see ; 
let  me  see  ; I’ll  get  Hugh  Evans,  the  young  Welshman,  to  write  out  my 


408 


MEG  AND  ALICE  I 


script  for  me — and  I’ll  get  Poll  Quickly  to  bear  it.  Yet  stay,  that  won’t 
do  either — he  knows  her,  and  will  suspect  something — maybe,  question 
her ; and  her  magpie  tongue  will  blab  all  out.  No,  no,  I’ll  trust  no 
one  but  myself.  Let  me  see ; let  me  see.” 

Next  evening,  as  Frank  Ford  was  sauntering  down  a close  lane,  that 
was  thick  embowered  with  hedge-rows  of  hawthorn,  dog-rose,  briony, 
and  brambles,  with  many  a peeping  fox-glove,  harebell,  and  cowslip 
beneath,  and  many  a fair  young  towering  oak  above ; suddenly  there 
dropped  at  his  feet  a green  ball,  of  moss,  grass,  and  twigs,  curiously 
enmeshed  and  intertwined,  that  looked  like  two  birds’  nests  joined 
together. 

Frank  picked  it  up.  “ A fairy-favor  !”  he  exclaimed  half-aloud  ; but 
looking,  as  he  spoke,  among  the  branches  overhead,  and  through  the 
hedge  that  skirted  the  lane,  to  see  what  mortal  hand  had  thrown  it  there. 
But  no  mortal  was  to  be  seen ; no  living  thing  seemed  there,  but  the 
birds  that  were  carolling  their  even-song  upon  branch  and  bough ; some 
kine  that  were  softly  lowing  in  a neighbouring  meadow,  waiting  to  be 
milked,  and  some  sheep  and  lambs  baaing  fold-ward. 

Frank  Ford  began  mechanically  to  untwist  some  of  the  fibres  of 
grass  and  withy,  that  compacted  the  ball ; and,  to  his  surprise,  perceived 
that  it  contained  a scrap  of  parchment,  upon  which  were  inscribed  odd 
crooked  characters,  which  after  some  careful  decyphering,  he  found  to 
run  thus  : — 

If  you’d  find  a marv’llous  treasure, 

Book  of  lore  and  wondrous  pleasure  ; 

By  to-morrow’s  earliest  sight, 

In  Windsor  Park  by  cock-crow  light, 

Beneath  the  moss-grown  beech’s  root, 

(Mark’d  with  crosses  three  its  bark,) 

Firm  of  heart,  of  hand,  of  foot, 

Dig  from  sunrise  until  dark. 

“ Pshaw  ! ” said  Frank  ; “ how  should  this  be  ? A book  ; buried 
beneath  a tree  ! Are  there  indeed  such  fairy-gifts  ? Knowledge  is 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


409 


gained  by  toil — its  treasures  lie  hidden— -and  are  only  to  be  brought  to 
light  by  research.  May  such  things  be  ? Our  Windsor  Parkis  said  to 
be  the  haunt  of  beings  more  than  mortal.  If  such  a book  is  there  in 
truth,  ’twere  well  worth  the  digging  for.” 

At  night,  when  he  laid  his  head  upon  the  pillow,  his  last  thought 
was  : — “ What  if  I were  to  go  there,  and  see  the  place  ? No  harm  in 
that.  Pll  sleep  upon  it.” 

He  woke  before  the  dawn.  “ I’ll  go  look  for  the  tree,  at  all  events, 
and  see  whether  it  bear  the  three  crosses.”  He  arose  ; but  before  he 
left  home,  he  took  a spade  from  an  out*house.  He  shouldered  it,  and 
thought “Nobody  will  know  of  my  folly,  even  if  I should  have  the 
folly  to  put  so  much  faith  in  this  scroll,  as  to  use  my  spade.”  Passing 
master  Page’s  farm  in  his  way  to  the  forest,  he  encountered  George,  who 
was  up,  with  his  father,  looking  after  the  men,  and  setting  them  to  work. 

“ Is  that  you,  Frank?”  said  George,  coming  through  the  gate  of  the 
farm-yard  to  meet  his  friend  ; “ whither  away  so  early  ? I thought  you’d 
been  more  of  a student — and  loved  better  to  pore  o’nights  over  black  and 
white,  than  to  get  up  o’mornings  to  see  the  sun  rise.” 

“ Hush  ! never  mind  ; now  you  have  seen  me,  come  with  me,  if  you 
will said  Frank  ; “ I’ve  got  something  in  hand,  that  I care  not  should 
be  talked  of  by  thy  father’s  hinds,  and  so,  get  over  half  Windsor.  If  I 
play  the  fool,  let  my  chum  only,  know  my  folly.” 

He  walked  on,  saying  no  word  more.  When  he  reached  the  forest,  he 
plunged  into  the  thick  of  the  trees,  and  still  walked  on. 

“ What  seek  you  ? A coney,  a hare,  or  a squirrel  ?”  said  George 
Page  laughing,  and  striding  after  Frank.  “ Or  is  it  a buck-royal  that 
you  have  come  hither  to  knock  o’the  head  with  that  spade,  and  so  bring 
me  with  ye  to  bear  part  of  the  blame  of  deer-stealing  ? ” 

“ Pr’ythee,  peace  said  Frank,  peering  about  among  the  boles  of 
the  trees. 

They  had  reached  a tangled  thicket,  or  dell ; far  and  wide  reputed  as 
a fairy-haunt.  In  the  midst  stood  a venerable  moss-grown  beech-tree, 
hollow  with  age,  and  but  few  leaves  left  fluttering  on  its  rugged  arms. 


410 


MEG  AND  ALICE  .* 


The  rising  sun  sent  its  penetrating  beams  through  the  neighbouring 
oaks,  and  elms,  and  beeches  ; and,  as  the  stream  of  light  fell  on  this 
centre  grand  old  tree,  three  crosses  were  distinctly  visible,  carved  upon 
its  smooth  trunk. 

“ By  the  mass,  there  they  are  !”  exclaimed  Frank. 

“ What,  are  where  ?”  said  George,  amazed  at  his  friend’s  excited 
manner. 

For  all  answer,  Frank  pointed  to  the  three  marks ; thrust  the  bit  of 
parchment  into  George’s  hand ; hastily  threw  off  his  doublet ; and  began 
digging  vigorously. 

George  examined  the  queer  characters  of  the  script ; spelt  them  over 
and  over;  and  then  said: — “I’m  no  great  scholar,  but  I can  make 
enough  out,  to  find  that  you’re  digging  in  hope  of  a promised  book.” 

“Just  that said  Frank,  lustily  continuing  his  labour,  though  it  made 
the  beads  stand  upon  his  Ihudw. 

“ You’re  less  accustomed  to  handle  a spade  than  a pen,  Ford said 
George  ; “ give  it  to  me,  and  let’s  see  how  many  spits  I can  heave  to  your 
one.” 

Frank  Ford  was  about  to  yield  the  spade ; when  he  suddenly  re- 
sumed plying  it,  as  eagerly  as  before. 

“ Laugh  at  me  if  you  will said  he ; “ but  I’m  determined  to  carry 
out  this  adventure  myself ; who  knows  but  the  charm  consists  in  being 
worked  out  by  him  alone,  who’s  destined  to  find  the  book  ?” 

A very  soft  titter, — scarce  more  than  the  twitter  of  a young  bird, 
might  have  been  heard  at  this  moment ; but  it  was  unheeded  by  either 
Frank  or  George. 

“You  have  faith  in  the  charm,  then?”  said  George;  “I  thought 
you  book-men  held  fairies  and  fairy-gifts  to  be  little  better  than  old 
wives’  tales.” 

“ I hardly  know  what  I believe — or  what  I doubt ;”  said  Frank  ; “ the 
more  we  scholars  learn,  the  less  we  rely  upon  our  own  wits.  We  get 
awed  by  the  store  of  knowledge  there  is  to  acquire,  which  makes  each 
-step  we  advance  seem  but  a plunge  into  fresh  difficulties ; the  light  be- 
fore us  serves  but  to  show  us  the  darkness  through  which  we  have 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OP  WINDSOR. 


411 


passed,  ana  casts  into  shadow  even  our  actual  path.  However  that  may 
be,  I’m  resolved  in  this  search  I’m  about,  to  win  through  with  it,  e’en  if 
I dig  here  till  set  of  sun.” 

The  soft  titter  trilled  forth  once  more ; while  Frank  continued  to 
throw  out  spadeful  after  spadeful  of  earth  from  the  hole, — which  was 
by  this  time  pretty  deep, — as  if  he  had  been  tossing  linen  out  of  a 
basket ; for,  sooth  to  say,  he  was  more  impetuous  than  skilful,  as  a hus- 
bandman. 

George  Page  stood  watching  him  ; turning  over  the  bit  of  parch- 
ment betwixt  his  own  fingers,  and  considering.  Suddenly  he  said  : — 
u Frank,  what’s  the  day  of  the  month  ?” 

“ I know  not, — neither  do  I care,  I was  going  to  add said  Frank 
Ford  hastily,  digging  away  as  strenuously  as  ever. 

u But  it  may  make  some  difference  in  your  charm,  you  know said 
George,  slily.  “I  do  believe,  it’s  the  first  day  of  April !” 

The  spade  dropped  from  Frank  Ford’s  hand  ; he  stood  aghast,  up  to 
his  knees  in  the  hole  he  had  dug  ; while  there  was  an  uncontrollable 
burst  of  tittering,  as  if  a whole  brood  of  young  birds  were  clamouring  in 
their  nest  for  food. 

George  Page  put  his  finger  on  his  lip,  as  he  looked  at  his  friend,  and 
then  stepped  close  to  the  hollow  trunk  of  the  beech-tree. 

“ I’ve  found  the  fairies,”  cried  he,  peeping  in,  and  discovering, — as 
he  expected,’ — the  crouching  forms,  and  laughing  faces  of  the  two  merry 
maidens,  Meg  and  Alice ; “ but  since  they’ve  been  pleased  to  play  their 
elvish  tricks  upon  us,  we’ll  not  let  them  vanish  without  paying  the  pen- 
alty. They  shan’t  creep  forth  from  their  hiding-place  without  giving  us 
a kiss  a-piece  ; shall  they,  Frank?” 

“ A kiss  is  the  least  I deserve  for  my  hard  digging,”  said  Frank 
Ford,  leaping  out  of  the  pit,  and  placing  himself  beside  George  to  pre- 
vent the  escape  of  their  rogues  of  prisoners. 

“Let’s  promise  the  kiss  a-piece,  and  trust *to  our  fingers  for  ridding 
us,  by  the  exchange  of  a box  o’  the  ear  each ;”  whispered  Alice  to  Meg. 
u Come,  come ; let  us  out !”  she  added  aloud. 

<f  Well  then,  you  promise?”  said  the  two  youths. 


412 


MEG  AND  ALICE  : 


“ Yes,  yes  ; we  promise,  of  course  said  the  girls  ; but  the  instant 
they  had  both  got  clear  of  the  hollow  tree,  they  took  to  their  heels,  and 
would  have  scampered  off  scot-free  ; had  not  Frank  and  George, — half 
prepared  for  such  an  attempted  cheat, — caught  them  before  they  had 
run  many  paces.  Then  a scuffle  ensued,  such  as  the  prize  in  question 
generally  brings  about  between  rustic  lads  and  lasses.  There  was  much 
struggling,  and  cuffing,  and  bending  of  waists,  and  bobbing  of  heads,  on 
the  part  of  the  girls,  to  avoid  the  clasping  arms,  and  adventurous  lips 
that  sought  a victory. 

George  Page  succeeded  in  snatching  a transient  touch  of  Meg’s  soft 
mouth,  amid  a storm  of  writhings  and  pushings,  and  thumpings ; while 
Frank  Ford  obtained  a passing  sweep  athwart  Alice’s  rosy  lips,  that  was 
scarce  more  than  smoothing  the  silk  of  an  electric  machine,  amidst  a 
perfect  hurricane  of  poutings,  and  slappings,  and  twistings,  and  twinings, 
of  her  pretty  little  body  to  and  fro  within  his  arms. 

u He’s  so  strong,  I’ve  no  patience  with  him she  exclaimed,  as  she 
burst  away  from  his  embrace  ; but  it  was  only  to  fall  into  the  equally 
potent  one  of  George  Page,  who  stood  on  the  watch  for  her,  as  he  let 
Meg  go. 

Frank  Ford  was  not  quite  so  alert  as  his  friend,  so  that  Margaret 
Gay  had  time  to  dart  off,  before  he  could  seize  her  in  his  turn. 
This  annoyed  him  ; and  he  said  testily, — as  the  girls  disappeared  ; “ So 
I’ve  punished  only  one,  after,  all ! ” I wonder  which  it  was  of  them 
that  sent  me  the  fairy-favour,  to  make  an  April-fool  of  me  ! I wish  I 
knew.” 

“ Forget  and  forgive  ! ” said  George.  11  Besides,  I shouldn’t  like  to 
have  my  kisses  taken  for  punishment,  if  I were  you.” 

“Why,  what  would  you  have  ’em  taken  for?  I suppose  you’ve  the 
modesty  to  think  the  girls  take  yours  for  blessings,  master  George  ? n 
said  Frank. 

“ Well,  I’ve  a notion  that  Margaret  Gay  didn’t  loathe  it,  for  all  she 
cuffed  me  so  heartily  : it’s  proper  to  struggle,  you  know,  Frank  ; they 
all  think  so,  bless  ’em  ; ” said  George,  laughing. 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OP  WINDSOR. 


413 


a And  pray  how  did  Alice  May  take  your  worship’s  salute  ? Did 
she  seem  to  think  it  an  infliction,  or  a privilege  ? — but  the  latter  no 
doubt ; ” said  Frank,  with  a tinge  of  bitterness  in  his  voice. 

“ I didn’t  so  much  notice  what  she  seemed  to  think  ; ” said  George. 
“ Now,  is  that  careless  tone  of  his,  put  on,  I wonder?”  thought 
Frank  Ford.  “ The  touch  of  Alice’s  lip  is  not  to  be  thought  of  with  such 
indifference  as  that ! Impossible  ! Not  natural  ! He  but  affects  not 
to  care  for  it ! ” For  another  moment  his  thoughts  ran  on  upon  the 
merits  of  the  lip  in  question  ; then  he  said  aloud : — “I  don’t  know  what 
business  you"  had  to  kiss  Alice  May  at  all,  for  my  part ! ” 

George  Page  laughed ; “ Only  as  much  business  as  you  had  ; we 
both  kissed  her  for  pleasure,  not  for  business,  I believe.  At  least,  I did.” 
“ You  had  a kiss  of  both  the  girls ; I had  one  only  of  Alice.  I 
shan’t  rest  contented  till  I get  one  of  Meg,  also  ; ” said  Frank. 

“ Tell  her  so  ; ” said  George  ; 61  and  if  she’s  the  girl  I take  her  for, 
she’ll  give  you  one  of  her  own  accord,  to  show  that  she  bears  no  malice. 
In  that  case,  you’ll  come  best  off,  after  all ; for,  to  my  thinking,  one 
willing  kiss  is  worth  a dozen  forced  ones,  any  day  ! ” 

The  next  time  the  young  people  all  met,  Margaret  Gay  proved  that 
George  Page’s  estimate  of  her  character  was  a true  one.  She  had 
already  fr  rgiven,  and  nearly  forgotten,  Frank’s  pedantic  airs  ; besides, 
her  befooling  him  in  the  forest, — although  the  tables  were  partly  turned 
upon  herself  there, — had  sufficiently  avenged  the  playmates’  cause  upon 
the  young  collegian  ; and  they  were  all  once  more  upon  their  old 
friendly  footing  together. 

Therefore,  when  George  Page  said  : — u Here’s  Frank  Ford  cannot  rest 
contented  till  he’s  even  with  you  for  your  Apr il-morn  jest,  Meg  ; so  give 
him  a kiss  for  peace’  sake  ; and  then  you  may  give  me  one  for — for — 
liking’  sake,  if  you  will ; ” Meg  gave  a blushing  laugh,  but  held  out  her 
plump  fresh  cheek  to  Frank,  giving  him  her  hand  heartily,  at  the  same 
time. 

u W ell ! ” said  George. 
u Well?  ” echoed  she. 


414 


MEG  AND  ALICE; 


u Pm  waiting  for  mine  he  said. 

u You  don’t  think  I’m  going  to  offer  it,  do  you,  Mr.  Impudence  ? ” 

u Then  I may  take  it?  ” 

“ Take  care,  I don’t  take  something  else,  then.  I may  take  you  a 
box  of  the  ear,  saying,  ‘ take  that  for  thy  pains,’  if  you  do.” 

“ I’ll  run  the  risk he  said,  catching  her  in  his  arms. 

“Stay!  If  you  snatch  it,  how  will  it  be  given?  I thought  you 
asked  for  a given  one, — one  to  be  given  ‘ for  liking’  sake ; ’ pray,  how 
have  you  deserved  such  a one  ? ” 

u By  liking  thee,  Meg  ; ” he  replied.  “ In  good  sadness* — or  rather, 
in  sober  verity, — or  rather,  by  this  good  light, — which  is  the  gay  light  in 
thine  eyes,  Meg, — I like  thee  right  well ; which,  I take  it,  is  a fair  title 
to  a kiss  upon  liking,  in  return.” 

“ He’s  meddling  with  your  father’s  vocation,  Frank;  talking  me  out 
of  my  senses,  like  a lawyer said  Meg,  turning  towards  him,  after  yield- 
ing to  George’s  wish  with  a maidenly  colour  in  her  cheek,  yet  with  the 
unaffected  cordiality  and  frankness  belonging  to  her  disposition. 

But  Frank  had  been  for  some  moments  talking  earnestly  to  Alice, 
which  prevented  his  observing  what  Meg  said. 

“ And  now,  come,  all  of  you,  to  father’s  said  George  Page  ; “ he 
bade  me  bring  as  many  of  the  lads  and  lasses  of  Windsor,  as  I could 
muster,  this  evening,  to  our  old  barn ; where  we’re  to  have  an  Easter- 
tide dance  and  supper.  So  you,  Frank,  take  Meg  and  Alice  there,  while 
I go  beat  up  for  more  guests,  who  have  heels  as  light  as  their  hearts. 
We’ll  have  a merry  night  on’t  !” 

During  that  evening’s  revels,  the  young  scholar,  Frank  Ford,  attached 
himself  almost  wholly  to  the  side  of  Alice  May.  When  the  coloured 
eggs,  proper  to  this  holiday  season,  were  handed  round,  he  presented 
her  with  some  as  a keepsake ; he  secured  her  as  his  partner  in  well-nigh 
every  measure  they  danced  ; he  ministered  to  her  plate  at  supper,  he 
pledged  her  in  the  foaming  nut-brown  ale ; he  drank  out  of  the  glass 
from  which  she  had  sipped ; and  while  showing  her  all  these  attentions, 
he  found  himself  thinking  of  the  sweet  fairy-favour  he  had  won  from  that 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


415 


rosy  lip  of  hers,  in  the  early  April  morning  among  the  old  park  trees. 
He  thought  how  bright  and  sparkling,  yet  how  tender,  was  her  blue  eye. 
He  thought  how  gay  and  merry-hearted  she  was,  yet  how  gentle  and 
modest.  He  thought  how  gracefully  agile  her  steps  were  in  the  dance, 
yet  how  seemly  her  behaviour  ; how  lively  her  manners,  yet  how  musi- 
cally soft  her  laugh  and  her  voice.  “ She  has  the  blithe  humour  of  the 
simple  country-girl,  with  the  refined  look  and  air  of  a high-bred  maiden 
thought  he ; u she  might  have  been  born  a lady,  and  would  do  honor  to 
the  choice  of  a gentleman.  What  a wife  she  will  make  for  a man  of  taste 
and  breeding,  in  a few  years’  time !” 

Each  succeeding  vacation,  thoughts  such  as  these  floated  through  the 
mind  of  the  young  collegian,  when  he  returned  home  to  Windsor,  and 
encountered  his  old  playmates,  Alice  May  and  Margaret  Gray ; and  each 
time,  these  thoughts  recurred  with  added  strength,  and  assumed  a more 
definite  purpose. 

“ I will  tell  her  my  thoughts,  the  next  time  I return  home,  which 
will  be  for  good  and  all he  resolved,  when  he  went  back  to  college  for 
the  last  time.  u I will  tell  her  what  I think  of  her,  and  learn  whether 
she  judges  me  as  favourably.” 

Meanwhile,  George  Page  had  been  indulging  somewhat  similar  rumi- 
nations with  regard  to  Margaret  Gay.  lt  What  a frank,  free-hearted 
creature  she  is !”  thought  he.  (i  What  a good-humoured,  comely  face,  she 
has  ! What  an  even  temper,  what  a pleasant  look,  what  a joyous  laugh! 
The  sound  of  it’s  enough  to  set  a man’s  heart  dancing  for  an  hour  after ; 
the  glance  of  her  eye,  to  mak$  him  sing  or  whistle  as  he  walks  ; the  sight 
of  her  face,  to  fill  him  with  glad  thoughts  for  a whole  day.  Her  voice  is 
like  the  carol  of  a thrush  on  a may-bough,  or  the  ousel  after  rain  ; her 
speech  is  like  the  bubbling  of  a water-brook  in  summer-time,  sweet,  liquid, 
and  welcome ; her  smile  is  like  an  opening  rose,  and  her  looks  are  like  the 
morning.  What  a happy  husband  she  would  make  of  him  she  might 
love  ! What  a cheerful  hopeful  companion,  what  a true  friend  would  he 
have  in  such  a wife !” 

His  fancy  was  amusing  itself  with  just  such  thoughts  as  these,  one 


416 


MEG  AND  ALICE  .*  ’ 


summer  evening,  when  he  met  Poll  Quickly,  who,  like  all  people  of  her 
busy-bodying  nature,  made  friends  with  every  one,  and  forced  every  one 
to  be  friends  with  her. 

“ Give  you  good  even,  master  Page  she  said,  dropping  the  young 
man  a curtsey  as  she  passed.  Then,  lingering  on  her  way,  to  suit  her 
pace  to  the  sauntering  one  he  was  taking,  she  added : — “ And  how’s  the 
worthy  gentleman,  your  father?  Stout  and  hearty,  I hope  ; may  Heaven 
in  its  mercy,  be  long  before  it  calls  him  to  a better  place  than  this  wicked 
world,  I pray.” 

“ My  father  was  never  better said  George  Page ; “ I thank  you, 
good  mistress  Polly.” 

u Long  may  he  continue  so ; and  may  he  never  be  worse  than  better, 
till  it  please  Heaven  to  bid  him  to  its  best ;”  said  she.  61  But  how  is  it, 
that  so  comely  a young  man  as  his  son,  is  walking  abroad  by  himself? 
When  there’s  not  a maid  in  all  Windsor  but  would  bear  him  company, 
as  welcome  as  the  flowers  in  May,  did  she  but  know,  he  was  so  lonely.” 

“ Lonely,  but  not  sadly,  mistress  Poll ;”  answered  he.  “ Though  a 
pretty  maiden’s  talk  is  pleasant  company,  to  be  sure,  yet  a man  can  walk 
alone,  and  yet  contrive  to  entertain  himself,  I trow.” 

“ And  that  he  may  ;”  replied  Poll  Quickly  ; “ speciously  when  he  can 
make  his  thoughts  of  the  pretty  maid  keep  him  company,  if  he  can’t  have 
herself  by  his  side.  I know  what  I know  ; but  all’s  one  for  that.” 

“ Why,  what  dost  thou  know,  good  Mistress  Poll  ? ” 

“ Nay,  nay,  I warrant  me,  you  think,  master  Page,  that  a mill-six- 
pence will  cover  all  I know  about  your  worship’s  fancy  for  a certain  well- 
looked  farmer’s  daughter  that  shall  be  named  no  names said  she,  nod- 
ding her  head  waggishly  ; “ but  as  sure  as  a hare’s  foot  is  good  for  the 
cramp,  I can  tell  who  was  she  that  sat  in  master  Page’s  thought,  when  I 
came  up  with  him,  just  now.” 

u How  know  you  that  I was  thinking  at  all  ? ” said  Page,  laughing. 
u Troth,  master  Page,  I know  well  enough,  that  when  young  men 
walk  alone  in  the  fields,  their  arms  folded,  their  eye  on  the  ground,  their 
step  slow,  and  their  breathing  quick,  they’re  not  thinking  of  nothing ; I 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


417 


know  they’re  thinking  of  something,  and  a pretty  something — an  eye, 
or  a lip,  it  may  he  ; or  of  somebody,  and  a pretty  somebody.  Well,  Heaven 
made  us  all ! But  some  are  fashioned  comely,  and  some  are  fashioned 
ugly ; some  are  fashioned  goodly,  and  some  badly.” 

“ True  enough  said  George  Page. 

“Ay,  in  truth,  it  is  true  enough  said  she  ; “ and  I’ll  hold  your 
worship  a silver-white  shilling,  that  I know  who  your  worship  deems  the 
goodliest-fashioned,  the  comeliest-featured,  and  all-to-nothing  prettiest 
girl  in  broad  Windsor,  though  it’s  a broad  town  and  a wide  town,  and  a 
fair  town : but  be  it  as  broad  as  a bean,  or  a Windsor  bean,  too,  yet  I 
wot  well  who  master  Page  thinks  the  fairest  maid  there.” 

“ Go  to,  thou  prat’st said  he. 

“ Prate  or  not  prate,”  retorted  she,  “ I’ll  hold  my  own,  that  young 
mistress  Gay  is  worth  any  man’s  liking ; she’s  a wife  for  a king  if  he 
fancied  her,  for  she’s  notable  and  saving, — a right  thrifty  housewife  ; 
she’s  a wife  for  the  proudest  lord  at  court,  for  she’s  frank-spoken  and 
open  ; she’s  a wife  for  a farmer,  for  she’s  pretty  and  merry  ; nay,  for  the 
matter  o’  that,  she’s  a wife  for  a poor  man,  if  she  chose  to  have  him,  for 
she  has  good  looks  and  gay  spirits  enough  to  console  him  for  a scanty 
table  and  a starving  hearth.” 

“ She  has  your  liking  at  any  rate,  mistress  Poll said  George  Page, 
smiling. 

“ She  has  m}^  good  liking,  and  she  shall  have  my  good  word,  too, 
whenever  she  asks  it,  master  Page  said  she  ; “ I can  see,  as  you  can 
see,  that  she  has  a hazel  eye,  a ripe  lip,  a slender  waist,  and  a trim 
ankle  ; but  I know  moreover,  that  she’s  as  good  a housewife  as  ever  a 
wife  in  Windsor  ; though  so  young  a maid.  She  has  all  the  gifts  of  a 
notable  housewife  ; she’s  as  neat  as  a bride,  in  her  garments  ; she  has  a 
quick  eye,  a curious  nose,  a careful  taste,  and  a ready  ear ; she’s  neither 
butter-finger’d,  sweet-tooth’d,  nor  faint-hearted,  so  that  she’ll  let  nothing 
fall  that  should  be  held  fast,  she’ll  waste  nothing  that  should  be  used  or 
stored,  nor  will  she  lose  time  with  over-niceness.  I tell  you,  master 
Page,  she’d  make  a wife  for  a prince,  or  for  the  prince  of  young  farmers, 


418 


MEG-  AND  ALICE  J 


which,  sooth  tosaj,  well  I know  who  is.”  And  Poll  Quickly  ended  her 
speech  with  a meaning  look  towards  him,  to  mark  her  concluding  words. 

“ Is  not  mistress  Alice  May  all  this,  to  the  full  as  worthily  as  young 
mistress  Gay  ?”  said  Page,  maliciously,  that  he  might  mislead  her,  and 
make  her  think  she  had  lavished  her  match-making  praise  on  the  wrong 
person. 

Poll  Quickly  was  so  taken  aback  by  this  idea,  that  she  could  not 
immediately  rally  ; but  presently  she  stammered  : — ■“  Surely  she  is  ! 
Never  a maid  in  Windsor  is  a sweeter  girl,  or  a more  prudent  housewife, 
than  young  mistress  Alice.” 

“ Saving  mistress  Margaret said  Page,  drily. 
u Ay,  saving  her  assented  Poll  Quickly  ; “ yet  mistress  Alice  is 
a rare  pickier  and  preserver  ; and  so  indeed  is  mistress  Margaret.  Such 
cowslip  wine  as  she  makes  ! And  yet  mistress  Alice  hath  the  lighter  hand 
at  a crust  for  a venison-pasty ; but  few  can  equal  mistress  Margaret  at 
tansy-cakes  ; and  then  what  skill  hath  mistress  Alice  in  veal-toasts  and 
kickshaws.  ' They’d  make  your  mouth  water  only  to  see  ’em  in  a dream. 
Sooth  to  say,  I cannot  tell  which  maiden  is  the  better  gifted  in  house- 
wifery, or  the  worthier  to  have  a comely  young  farmer  for  a husband ; 
but  they’ll  both  make  passing  good  wives — above  all,  young  mistress” — 
here  sin?  glanced  vainly  into  Page’s  face  ; which,  affording  no  glimmering 
ray  of  intelligence  to  guide  her,  she  stumbled  on  blindly,  and  ended  with 
a vague  sound  of  to  which  he  might  prefix  either  G or  ikZ,  as  might 
best  please  himself. 

“ In  short,  she’s  as  expert  in  cookery  and  household  matters,  as  she’s 
charming  in  person  ; ” said  George  Page. 

u Troth,  master  Page,  you  never  said  a truer  word  ; and  so  you 
shall  find,  when  you’ve  made  her  your  wife.” 

“ Made  whom  my  wife  ? ” said  he,  slily  and  suddenly. 
u Young  mistress  ’ay  answered  Poll  Quickly,  with  the  same  du- 
biousness of  pronunciation  in  the  commencing  consonant ; cc  Ah,  you’ll 
be  a happy  man,  master  Page  ; truly,  you  have  an  eye  to  choose  a 
sweetheart,  and  wit  to  choose  a wife  ; both  of  which  I wish  you  joy  of, 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


429 


in  young  mistress  ’ay.  And  though  I wouldn’t  be  bold  to  remind  you 
of  the  wager  between  us,  yet  you’ll  own  I’ve  fairly  won  it ; have  I not, 
master  Page?  The  silver-white  shilling  is  honestly  mine.” 

“ You  shall  have  the  shilling,  fairly  won,  or  no  ; ” said  George  Page 
laughing ; u there  it  is  for  thee  ; thy  praise  of  both  the  merry  maids 
is  honestly  worth  it, — at  all  events,  to  my  ear,  for  I love  them  both, 
dearly.” 

u Marry;  Heaven  forbid  ! You  can  have  but  one  of  them  to  wife, 
remember,  master  Page ; ” said  the  startled  Poll  Quickly. 

“ Rest  you  content,  mistress  Poll ; ” said  Page,  smiling.  u I love 
my  pretty  neighbours  in  all  honesty  of  liking ; they  have  both  been  my 
playmates  from  boyhood  ; I’ve  a right  to  say  I love  them  dearly,  and  I 
do  love  them  dearly — 1 speciously  ’ one  of  them,”  he  added  to  himself, 
mimicking  Poll’s  word. 

61  I’ll  commend  your  worship  to  them,  and  tell  them  so,  the  first  time 
I see  them  again  ; ” said  Poll  Quickly,  dropping  her  parting  curtsey. 

u Do  so,  mistress  Polly ; and  good  evening  to  you ; ” said  he. 

u Good  evening,  and  good  night ; and  pleasant  dreams  of  young 
mistress  ’ay,  I wish  you  from  my  heart,  master  Page.  And  may  her 
pretty  face,  which  I see  at  this  moment  ” — here  Poll  Quickly’s  mental 
vision  gave  her  a confused  dual  portrait  of  Meg  and  Alice’s  two  sets  of 
features  blended  in  inextricable  cross-lines  and  hues — “ may  it  smile 
near  your  pillow  while  you  sleep,  as  clear  as  I behold  it  before  me  now, 
I pray  Heaven.”  . 

Whilst  this  conversation  between  George  Page  and  Poll  Quickly 
was  taking  place  in  the  fields,  Meg  and  Alice  were  chatting  together 
over  their  spinning-wheels,  which  they  had  brought  out  into  the  porch 
of  farmer  Gay’s  house,  that  they  might  enjoy  the  sunny  afternoon  in 
the  open  air. 

“ Tell  me,  Meg,  is  this  true,  I hear  that  mistress  Barley-broth 
asked  your  good  mother  whether  she  thought  you  could  love  her  son 
Ambrose  ; and  that  honest  Ralph  Barley-broth  told  your  father  he 
hoped  he’d  not  refuse  his  boy  such  a good  wife  as  his  daughter  would 
make  ? ” 


420 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ; 


“ Yes,  yes,  it’s  true  enough  ; ” said  Margaret  Gray,  laughing  ; u true 
enough  that  young  master  Ambrose  was  too  sheepish  to  court  for 
himself,  and  so  got  his  father  and  mother  to  get  him  a wife  ready- 
wooed.” 

“ Then  you  wouldn’t  have  him?  ” said  Alice. 

“ Have  him  ? What  should  I do  with  him,  when  I had  him  ? Set 
him  to  mind  father’s  geese  ? — or  to  hold  my  distaff?  But  even  these 
offices,  I fear  me,  would  prove  beyond  him.  A young  fellow  that  hasn’t 
courage  to  look  a girl  in  the  face,  or  wit  to  tell  her  his  liking,  would  let 
the  geese  stray,  and  the  flax  tangle.” 

“ Poor  Ambrose  ! ” laughed  Alice. 

“ Cast  not  thy  pity  away  upon  a sheep,  any  more  than  thy  pearls, — 
had’st  thou  a string  of  ’em, — before  swine  ; ” said  Meg ; “ take  my  word 
for  it,  master  Ambrose  Barley-broth  is  not  so  tender  a lambkin  that 
he’ll  break  his  heart  upon  the  stony  cruelty  of  mine.  He’ll  get  his 
good  parents  to  carry  his  bleatings  to  some  other  damsel,  who  will  be 
content  to  listen  to  them  at  second-hand  ; and  then  he’ll  think  her 
fairer  and  comelier  than  ever  he  fancied  me.” 

“ Like  enough ; ” said  Alice  ; “ a shame-faced  suitor  sees  most 
beauty  in  her  who  smiles  on  his  suit  with  least  suing.  But  see  who 
comes  here  ! That  tattling  gossip,  Poll  Quickly.” 

u Her  tattle  is  harmless,  and  her  gossip  is  amusing ; ” said  Meg  ; 

• let’s  hear  what  news  she  has.” 

66  A fair  evening,  and  a many  of  ’em,  to  the  two  merry  maidens  of 
Windsor  ; ” said  Poll,  approaching  the  porch  ; lC  the  wheel  flies  swift 
and  the  yarn  lengthens,  when  spinning  is  done  out  of  doors  such  evenings 
as  these,  and  by  such  fingers  as  those.” 

u Hast  thou  been  among  the  courtiers,  up  at  the  castle,  good  mistress 
Poll,  that  thou  hast  learnt  such  flattering  words  ? ” asked  Alice. 

“Nay,  I flatter  not;  I but  repeat  what  others  say,  when  I avouch 
that  the  two  merry  maids  have  fingers  both  nimble  and  fair ; ” said  Poll. 
“ And  as  for  gill-flirting  among  the  courtiers  up  yonder,  I detest,  as  I’m 
an  honest  maid,  I’m  above  such  doings.  No,  all  can  be  said  of  Poll 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


421 


Quickly  is,  that  she  minds  her  modest  calling  of  bar-maid,  and  does  its 
duties  soberly,  I thank  Heaven  for  it.” 

“ Thou  still  keep’st  thy  place  at  the  Star  Inn,  then  ?”  said  Margaret 
Gay. 

“ Ay,  that  I do,  i’faith replied  Poll ; u though  hard’s  the  softest 
words  I have  there,  and  heavy’s  the  lightest  work  I have,  Lord  knows  ! 
Up  with  the  lark,  and  down  with  the  lamb,  is  my  latest  lying-abed,  I’ll 
warrant  ye.  At  work  by  cock-crow,  and  only  half  done  by  the  time  the 
chickens  go  to  roost,  is  my  daily  labour.  A bar-maid  at  the  Star  has 
her  hands  full,  I can  tell  ye  ; and  the  place  isn’t  a bed  stuffed  with  pul- 
let-down.” 

“ Why  do  you  stay  in  it,  then,  mistress  Poll  ? Why  not  try  and  get 
another  and  a better  place  ? ” said  Alice. 

“ So  I would,  and  so  I mean,  if  I can  get  some  good  soul  to  help  me 
to  a better  ; ” returned  Poll  Quickly.  “ They  do  say,  that  there’s  a ran- 
tipole  young  man  coming  over  here  from  Staines  to  set  up  a new  hos- 
telry ; and  if  so,  the  old  Star  may  go  whistle  for  custom  ; in  which  case? 
I leave,  depend  on’t.  ” 

<c  Hats  quit  falling  houses  they  say  whispered  Alice  to  her  friend  ; 
and  here’s  a mouse  that  won’t  stay,  where  there  are  no  crumbs  to  be 
nibbled.” 

“ And  who  do  you  think  I’ve  just  parted  with,  in  the  fields,  yonder 
said  Poll  Quickly,  who  had  crossed  her  arms  leisurely  on  the  top  of  the 
wicket-gate,  a few  paces  from  the  porch  where  Meg  and  Alice  sat,  and 
had  evidently  taken  up  her  position  for  a lounging  talk ; “ I’ll  give  it  ye 
in  ten,  I’ll  give  it  ye  in  twenty — though  two  you’ll  not  guess,  ere  you 
hit  upon’s  name,  I warrant  me.  Well,  Heaven  be  praised,  young  men 
will  be  comely,  and  young  women  will  have  eyes  ; and  so  for  the  matter 
of  that,  have  young  farmers ; and  a keen  eye,  and  a handsome  eye  he 
has,  and  a roguish  eye  for  a pretty  girl,  I’ll  be  his  surety.” 

u Of  whom  art  thou  talking  ? ” said  Margaret. 

“ Lord,  lord  ! to  see  how  crafty-modest  young  maidens  can  be  ! ” ex- 
claimed Poll ; “ As  if,  for  sooth,  you  didn’t  know,  both  of  ye,  as  pat  as 


422 


MEGr  AND  ALICE  ! 


a pancake  to  Shrove  Tuesday,  or  a coloured  egg  to  Easter,  that  the  young 
farmer  I’m  telling  you  of,  is  none  other  than  master  George  Page.” 

“ And  what  of  him  ? ” asked  Alice  ; for  Margaret  was  at  that  instant 
busy,  untwisting  a knot  that  had  somehow  got  into  the  yarn  she  was 
spinning. 

“ Why,  nothing  of  him,  but  what  you  know,  both  of  ye,  better  than 
I can  tell  you ; ” said  Poll,  glancing  shrewdly  into  both  their  faces  alter- 
nately, that  she  might  try  and  find  out  which  of  the  young  girls  showed 
most  interest  in  what  she  was  saying ; “ nothing  of  him  ; but  much  of 
what  he  said  ; ” added  she  with  a nod,  as  she  emphasised  the  last  words. 

“ And  what  said  he  ?”  Alice  went  on  ; for  Margaret  was  still  intent 
upon  the  knot. 

“ Ah,  you’re  a daughter  of  grannam  Eve,  mistress  Alice,  like  us  all, 
Lord  forgive  us  ! ” exclaimed  Poll  Quickly.  “Now,  I warrant  me,  you 
couldn’t  guess,  not  you,  that  master  Page’s  talk  was  naught  but  of  a cer- 
tain young  maiden,  that  sits  nearer  to  me,  than  I am  to  London  town  ; 
and  if  I was  to  say  she’s  one  of  the  two  who  are  known  for  the  merriest 
maids  in  all  Windsor,  you  wouldn’t  think  that,  either,  would  you?” 

“ And  pr’ythee  what  was  his  talk  of  us  ? What  found  he  new  to 
say  of  his  two  old  playmates  and  neighbours  ? ” said  Alice. 

“ Why,  he  said — he  said — that  he  loved  them  both  dearly  stam- 
mered Poll  Quickly ; who,  when  thus  called  upon  to  repeat  what  master 
Page  had  actually  said,  could  recollect  nothing  more  definite,  or  to  the 
purpose,  in  his  laudation. 

The  two  merry  maidens  burst  into  a gay  laugh.  “ Is  that  all  the 
mystery  thou  hast  to  tell  ? That’s  nothing  new,  to  say  or  to  hear  ! W e 
know  full  well  that  we  are  favourites  of  his,  as  two  friends  of  such  long 
standing  needs  must  be  ; ” said  Alice. 

“Ay,  but  his  favourite  one  of  the  two  of  ye — which  is  she,  I won- 
der?” said  Poll  Quickly  slyly,  and  rallying ; for  she  was  not  long  to  be 
disconcerted. 

“ Ay, — which  ? — I wonder,  which  ? ” said  Alice.  “ But  in  good  sad- 
ness, I think  it  would  be  hard  to  tell  which  ; for  I believe  he  likes  us 
both  so  well,  there’s  not  a pin  to  choose  between  us.  George  Page  loves 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


423 


Meg  and  me  as  dearly  as  sisters ; and  he’s  too  good  a brother  to  breed 
dissention,  by  giving  one  a preference  to  the  other.” 

“ Sisters,  quoth’a  ? ” retorted  Poll ; “ Troth,  mistress  Alice,  you’re  a 
sly  bird ; but  there’s  a fowler  lying  in  wait  for  you,  or  I’m  much  mistook, 
that’ll  lure  you  into  his  net  some  of  these  fine  days,  and  make  you  his 
turtle-dove ; he’ll  springe  ye,  he’ll  ring-fence  ye,  he’ll  cage  ye,  I’ll  war- 
rant ; which  Heaven  send,  I pray.”  So  saying  with  many  a nod,  and 
wink,  and  chuckling  laugh,  Poll  quickly  left  the  wicket-gate,  and  pottered 
away. 

For  some  time  after  her  departure,  the  two  merry  maids  pursued  their 
spinning  in  silence, — an  unusual  thing  with  them  ; but  at  length  Alice 
said  with  a smiling  look  towards  her  companion : — “ I’m  minded,  Meg, 
that  should  Poll  Quickly  be  right  in  fancying  that  George  Page  likes  one 
of  us  better  than  the  other,  and  that  one  even  more  dearly  than  a sister, 
he  needn’t  fear  the  fate  of  Ambrose  Barley-broth.” 

“ He  wouldn’t  woo  like  Ambrose  Barley-broth  ; ” replied  Margaret. 
tl  If  George  Page  loved  a girl  well  enough  to  wish  her  for  a wife,  he’d 
tell  her  so  himself,  and  at  once.” 

“ May  be  so  ; and  may  be,  that  £ at  once  ’ is  not  so  far  off,  eh,  Meg  ? ” 
said  Alice  ; “ I’ve  a notion  it’ll  be  shortly ; what  say  you  ? ” 

“ Nay,  perhaps  you  know  best ; ” answered  Margaret  smiling;  “ Poll 
Quickly  said  one  of  the  merry  maids  was  his  favourite  ; who  knows  but 
it  may  be  you,  after  all  ? ” 

u I know  better ; and  so  do  you,  Meg.  Come,  now ; own  like  the 
honest  girl  thou  art,  that  thou  see’st  he  loves  thee,  and  that  thou  lov’st 
him.” 

“ If  he  tell  me  the  one,  I’ll  tell  thee  the  other,  Alice,”  said  her  friend, 
blushing  and  laughing.  u But,  come  now,  in  thy  turn  own  to  me,  whe- 
ther'there  is  not  one,  beside  the  friend  in  question,  who,  were  he  to  tell 
thee  the  same  tale,  would  get  as  kind  an  answer  for  his  pains.” 

“ Where  should  such  a one  be  ? ” said  Alice. 

“ Marry,  at  college,  now  ; ” replied  Margaret ; u but  vacation-time 
will  soon  be  here,  and  then  he  returns  to  Windsor,  and  then ” 

“ And  then,”  interrupted  Alice,  u if  he  tell  me  the  tale  thou  think’st 
he  has  to  tell,  I’ll  tell  thee  the  tale  thou  expect’st  to  hear  from  me.” 


424 


MEG  AND  ALICE 


“ A bargain ; ” said  Meg.  And  the  two  friends’  spinning-wheels 
went  merrily  on;  while  the  spinsters  struck  into  a quaint  ditty,  in 
which  they  both  joined  voices  tunefully  together 


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THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


425 


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426 


MEG  AND  ALICE 


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THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


427 


Web  soundly,  Thread  roundly,  Fast  as  our  fingers  can  fly. 


Web  soundly,  Thread  roundly,  Fast  as  our  fin-gers  can  fty. 

iHm 


428 


MEG  AND  ALICE: 


About  this  time,  sir  Marmaduke  Ducandrake  returned  to  his  estate 
at  Windsor,  after  a lengthened  sojourn  in  London,  where  he  had  contrived 
to  fool  away  larger  sums  of  money  than  ever.  One  of  these  sums  was 
lost  at  a tavern,  where  the  Templars,  and  young  law-students  of  the 
different  inns  of  court,  much  resorted.  The  young  fellow  who  had 
gained  the  knight’s  money,  was  not  inclined  to  trust  his  debtor  any  the 
more  for  finding  that  his  rank  was  above  that  of  his  associates  ; and  when 
sir  Marmaduke  owned  that  he  had  not  as  much  cash  about  him  as  would 
pay  the  sum  lost,  the  young  man  blustered,  and  would  have  doubtless 
proceeded  to  even  worse  extremities  than  venting  his  ire  in  several 
opprobrious  terms,  the  least  of  which  was  4 sneak-up,’  4 coystril,’  and 
‘bilking  knave.’  But  in  this  emergency,  one  of  the  company,  a country 
squire, — who  happened  to  be  in  London  on  a visit  of  the  same  nature 
with  the  one  which  called  sir  Marmaduke  thither,  namely,  a desire  to  get 
rid  of  a little  of  his  superfluous  revenue,  and  enjoy  a roystering  season 
in  the  metropolis, — stepped  forward,  and  offered  the  use  of  his  purse  to 
sir  Marmaduke  Ducandrake,  only  soliciting  the  honor  of  his  friendship 
in  return  for  this  passing  service. 

With  much  alacrity,  sir  Marmaduke  seized  this  opportune  tender, 
and  protested  that  it  was  he  who  should  feel  honored  by  the  acquaintance 
of  a gentleman  who  could  behave  with  so  much  spirit  and  generosity  of 
feeling. 

The  country  squire  announced  his  name  to  be  Robert  Shallow,  Esq.j 
of  Gloucestershire  ; upon  which  a friendly  alliance  was  struck  up  be- 
tween him  and  sir  Marmaduke  that  lasted  all  the  remainder  of  the 
London  season.  The  knight  introduced  the  country  squire  to  such  of 
the  amusements  at  the  court-end  of  the  town,  as  he  thought  he  might 
safely  be  seen  in  with  so  bumpkin  a companion,  letting  it  be  well  under- 
stood, that  the  squire  was  rich  enough  to  gild  his  rusticity  and  make  it 
pass  current  among  the  town  gentry  ; while,  in  return,  the  country  squire 
introduced  the  knight  to  several  delectable  tavern-haunts  Eastward, 
which  had  till  now  been  unknown  ground  to  the  courtier.  But  when  the 
court  removed  to  Windsor  for  the  summer,  the  friends  were  compelled 
to  part;.Afor  sir  Marmaduke  had  to  attend  the  royal  suite,  as  well  as  to 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OP  "WINDSOR, 


429 


visit  liis  estate,  that  he  might  recruit  his  health  and  his  finances,  which 
had  both  suffered,  in  the  late  London  campaign ; while,  on  his  side,  the 
country  squire  was  about  to  return  to  Gloucestershire,  to  resume  his 
magisterial  duties,  being  a justice  of  the  peace  in  that  county. 

Sir  Marmaduke  had  given  his  note  of  hand  for  the  money  he  had 
borrowed  of  justice  Shallow  in  his  emergency  ; and  now,  on  taking  leave, 
he  told  his  friend,  he  would  forward  him  the  sum  in  question, — three 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds, — by  a safe  hand,  so  soon  as  he  should  return 
to  his  Windsor  estate. 

On  the  very  morning  after  his  arrival  there,  sir  Marmaduke  sent  for 
his  treasurer  and  bailiff,  farmer  Page,  and  told  him  the  occasion  he  had 
for  various  sums  ; and  among  others,  he  mentioned  this  one,  and  desired 
Page  would  find  a trustworthy  messenger  to  convey  the  amount  of  his 
debt  to  Gloucestershire,  and  to  place  it  in  the  hands  of  justice  Shallow. 
The  farmer  undertook  that  his  own  son  should  execute  the  knight’s 
commission ; and  accordingly  George  Page  was  desired  to  be  ready  by 
the  following  morning,  to  set  out  upon  his  journey. 

Now,  a journey  of  some  seventy  miles,  through  Berkshire  woods,  and 
meadows,  and  among  Gloucestershire  uplands  and  hills,  in  lovely  summer 
weather,  on  horseback,  and  at  a pace  suited  to  the  rider’s  own  liking, 
should  seem  no  such  irksome  task ; and  yet,  when  it  was  first  proposed 
by  farmer  Page  to  his  son,  true  it  is,  that  George  did  not  feel  the  glee3 
in  its  prospect,  which  most  young  men  of  his  age  would  have  both  felt 
and  shown.  But  neither  did  he  manifest  any  discontent ; he  took  his 
father’s  directions  with  regard  to  the  message  and  the  packet  he  was  to 
bear,  and  prepared  to  set  forth  with  his  usual  frank  good-humour  and 
unclouded  brow. 

The  cause  of  his  first  unwillingness,  and  his  subsequent  cheerful 
assent  in  the  matter,  might  be  gathered  from  the  words  he  muttered  to 
himself,  as  he  saddled  his  horse  at  an  early  hour  next  day,  and  began 
his  journey : — “ I can  tell  her,  just  as  well,  when  I return ; it  has 
been  so  long  untold, — perhaps  unthought,  even  by  myself, — -that  it  may 
well  abide  unspoken  till  I come  back.  And  yet,  meantime,  I wish  I 
could  have  seen  her ; had  it  been  but  to  say  goodbye  ; although,  had  I 


430 


MEG  AND  ALICE  J 


said  that,  I had  certainly  said  more.  Well,'  I should  have  carried  a 
lighter  heart  into  Gloucestershire  could  I have  told  its  secret  to  Meg 
before  I went ; I should  be  a coxcomb  to  fancy  that  hers  will  be  heavy 
at  my  going  away  without  a word  ; but  yet,  I would  I had  seen  her  ere 
I left  Windsor.” 

The  morning  was  one  of  those  so  common  to  a fine  English  summer, 
when  the  landscape  is  shrouded  in  silvery  dew  and  haze,  which  foretells 
the  glowing  beauty  of  the  coming  day;  what  time  the  sun,  with  his 
amorous  warmth,  shall  raise  the  veil  that  screens  the  coy  earth,  and  call 
upon  the  universal  sky  to  bear  witness  to  her  loveliness. 

The  air  was  scented  with  many  a hay-cock  and  bean -blossom,  as  it 
came  freely  wafted  over  field  and  meadow ; its  stillness  was  marred  by 
no  ruder  sound  than  the  soaring  lark’s  song,  the  lowing  of  herded  kine. 
the  hum  of  insects,  the  rustle  of  leaves  stirred  by  its  light  summer  breeze. 
All  nature  seemed  filled  with  sweet  and  hopeful  things  ; while  still  the 
burden  of  George  Page’s  thought  was  : — ■“  yet  I would  I had  seen  her  ere 
I left  Windsor.”  It  had  not  been  repeated  to  himself  above  twenty-five 
times,  at  the  very  utmost  computation  ; certainly,  he  had  not  measured 
a furlong’s  space  from  his  father’s  farm, — when,  suddenly  his  ear  caught 
sound  of  a blithe  voice  carolling  some  rustic  ballad,  and  his  eye  fell  upon 
the  very  form  which  of  all  others  he  had  been  longing  to  see. 

Yes ; there  was  Margaret  Gay  singing  as  clear  as  a black-bird, 
carrying  a basket  on  her  arm,  and  stepping  at  a smart  pace  along  the 
hedgerow  foot-path,  which  skirted  the  bridle-way 

“ Why,  what  in  the  name  of  blest  fortune  brings  thee  abroad,  and  so 
early  ? ” said  George  Page,  as  the  young  girl  turned  her  head  at  the 
sound  of  his  horse’s  foot. 

u I am  going  across  the  fields  to  Ashleigh  farm ; there’s  a cotter 
there,  who  was  once  a hind  at  my  father’s.  Mother  heard  that  his  poor 
wife,  and  two  of  the  children,  are  sick  of  the  hay -fever,  so  she  sent  me 
over  to  see  what  can  be  done,  and  to  take  them  a couple  of  pullets  to 
make  broth  of,  and  some  new-laid  eggs.  And  what  may  take  you  this 
way?  On  horseback,  too  ; it  must  be  some  distant  errand.” 

“ I go,  at  my  father’s  bidding,  into  Gloucestershire ; ” answered 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


431 


G-eorge  Page ; “ but  I can’t  tell  thee  well  all  about  it,  thou  walking,  I 
riding.  Either  I’ll  dismount,  and  sit  beside  thee  awhile  under  the 
hedge ; or  thou  shalt  get  up  with  me,  and  let  Daisy  carry  thee  to 
Ashleigh  farm,  round  by  the  road-way,  which,  with  the  help  of  her  back, 
will  be  as  near  as  the  path  over  the  fields.” 

“ I’ll  not  be  the  means  of  making  George  Page  loiter  on  his  errands  ; 
and  so,  mayhap,  get  his  father’s  ill-word said  Meg. 

u Give  me  thy  hand,  then  ; set  thy  foot  firm  on  my  instep ; now  give 
a spring,  and  up  thou  art !”  And  thus  she  was  lifted  to  his  saddle-bow. 

“ And  now  tell  me,  Meg, ” 

“ I thought  you  were  to  tell  me interrupted  she  ; for  George  Page, 
— doubtless  in  his  anxiety  to  prevent  her  falling  from  the  horse, — had 
passed  both  arms  around  her  ; and,  as  he  spoke,  they  held  her  more 
closely  than  the  danger  seemed  to  require  ; “ you  were  going  to  say 
what  causes  your  journey  into  Gloucestershire,  weren’t  you  ? ” 

“ Ay ; my  father  sends  me  thither,  on  business  of  sir  Marmaduke’s, 
to  one  justice  Shallow.  I shall  be  gone  a bare  fortnight,  I fancy ; but 
meanwhile  I’m  glad  to  have  seen  Margaret  Gay  before  I set  forth,  though 
it  be  to  say  farewell.” 

“ 4 Farewell  ’ for  so  short  an  absence,  is  no  hard  word  to  say  said 
Margaret  Gay.  “ Better  have  to  say  ‘ farewell  ’ for  a fortnight’s  ride, 
than  £ God  be  wi’  you’  for  a year  and  a sea-voyage.” 

“ I’m  glad  to  hear  thee  say  thou  had’st  rather  part  with  me  for  a 
fortnight  than  a year,  Meg.  But  let  me  ask  thee  a plain  question  or 
two.” 

“ Thou’rt  like  to  get  but  wry  answers  to  thy  plain  questions,  if  thou 
hold’st  me  so  tight,  George said  she  ; “ prisoners,  thou  know’st,  are  apt 
to  be  crabbed  in  reply  to  their  jailers.” 

“ I am  no  jailer ; I would  be  none  to  thee,  Meg ; I would  be  thy 
husband  ;”  said  George  Page. 

“ My  husband?  cry  you  mercy,  what  is  that  but  a jailer  ?”  replied 
she. 

“ I’ll  show  thee  what  else,  if  thou’lt  make  me  thine,  dear  Meg he 
said.  “No  grim  jailer  ; but  a warm  friend,  a zealous  protector,  a loving 
spouse,  shalt  thou  have  of  me,  if  thou  wilt  have  me  for  a husband.” 


432 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ! 


“ Too  many  good  things  in  one  man,  to  refuse ; I’ll  think  of  your 
good  offer,  if  you’ll  give  me  breathing-space.  Set  me  down  on  the  ground  : 
I can  think  more  at  my  ease  there,  than  I can  here.  A free-born  Eng- 
lish woman  pants  for  liberty  of  choice,  and  how  can  I choose  freely  when 
you  hug  me  so  tight  ? I’m  in  prison  here,  and  can’t  give  your  proposal 
consideration  at  large,  which  is  its  due.  Set  me  down,  George.” 

“ That  will  I not ; unless  you  tell  me  that  the  gyves  hurt  you :”  said 
he,  letting  his  arms  give  her  another  gentle  clasp. 

“ If  I tell  you  they  neither  pain  me  nor  offend  me,  you’ll  be  asking 
me  to  wear  them  for  life said  she. 

“You  should  never  know  rougher  shackles;  nor  worse  prison-fare, 
than  bread  and  cheese  with  appropriate  garnish — and  thou’rt  too  good  a 
housewife  not  to  know  what  that  is  ; nor  crueller,  usage  than  this.”  The 
last  word  was  accompanied  by  something  that  rhymed  to  it ; while  Meg 
said  : — “ If  you  neglect  the  bridle  thus,  master  George,  I fear  me 
Daisy  will  take  her  own  pace,  and  we  shall  never  reach  Ashleigh  farm 
to-day.” 

“ I care  not  how  long  we  are  going  thither said  George  Page. 

u Is  it  thus  you  obey  your  father’s  bidding  to  speed  into  Gloucester- 
shire ? ” asked  Meg. 

“ He  bade  me  ride,  not  speed ; and  I am  resolved  I will  not  on 
thither,  until  I carry  with  me  thy  promise  to  be  my  wife  on  my  return, 
Meg.  I’ve  set  my  heart  on  it.” 

“ If  so,  I can  but  give  thee  the  promise  thou  desir’st,  George  ; and 
to  make  it  better  worth  the  carrying,  suppose  I let  thee  know  that  my 
heart  goes  with  it  ?”  said  Meg. 

The  storm  of  kisses  with  which  her  frank  words  were  greeted,  may 
be  inferred  from  Meg’s  exclamation  of  “ George,  you’ll  frighten  the  very 
birds  off  the  trees  ! See  how  farmer  Ashleigh’s  sober  cows  are  staring 
at  us  ! But  there’s  Miles  Swinkley’s  cottage.  Now  set  me  down  in 
earnest,  George.  God  bless  thee  ; and  farewell !” 

With  one  parting  hug,  the  lover  let  his  mistress  dismount ; and  then 
he  set  forward  at  a pace  that  should  make  up  for  the  time  he  had  so 
pleasantly  lost. 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


433 


In  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  from  the  one  on  which  he  left 
home,  George  Page  found  himself  at  the  gates  of  master  Eobert  Shallow’s 
dwelling.  It  was  a goodly  red-brick  house,  with  a trim  flower-garden 
in  front  and  surrounding  the  immediate  tenement ; a spacious  orchard, 
barns,  and  out-houses,  lay  beyond;  and  beyond  those  again, was  a moder- 
ately-sized deer-park,  with  a few  acres  of  grass  and  corn  fields. 

When  George  Page  pulled  the  great  gate-bell  to  announce  his  ap- 
proach, there  was  a rough  grinning  head  or  two  thrust  forth  from  a stable 
near  at  hand — there  was  a whispering — a boy  ran  across  the  lawn,  and 
entered  the  house  by  a little  side  door ; then  from  the  principal  entrance 
there  issued  a man-servant  of  apparently  greater  dignity,  who  was  don- 
ning an  official  coat  of  livery  as  he  came  along  towards  the  gate,  through 
which  he  inspected  the  stranger  on  horseback,  and  enquired  his  business. 

“ I come  on  business  from  sir  Marmaduke  Ducandrake  to  his  good 
friend  master  Eobert  Shallow.  Be  pleased  to  tell  the  worthy  justice 
this,  and  that  I crave  to  see  him  by  the  name  of  George  Page.” 

“ I will  bear  your  message,  sir ; ” and  the  man  disappeared. 

Presently  he  returned  ; opened  the  great  iron  gates  with  some 
pomp  ; and  calling  to  a stable-lad,  he  bade  him  lead  the  gentleman’s 
nag  away,  while  he  besought  master  Page  to  follow  him  straight  to  his 
worship. 

Master  Eobert  Shallow  was  seated  in  state,  in  the  apartment  which 
served  him  as  a justice-room,  and  rose  a little  stiffly  to  receive  the 
emissary  of  sir  Marmaduke,  as  if  willing  to  do  him  honor ; but  when 
Geoige  Page  had  stated  his  errand,  had  repeated  the  knight’s  greeting, 
and  had  delivered  the  sum  he  had  in  charge,  with  many  courteous  acknow- 
ledgments on  the  part  of  sir  Marmaduke  for  the  seasonable  aid  afford- 
ed by  his  esteemed  friend,  master  Eobert  Shallow,  the  justice  subsided 
into  the  slipshod  ease,  and  good-humored  babble  which  was  his 
usual  manner. 

u Why,  this  is  well,  this  is  well,  of  my  friend,  sir  Marmaduke.  It 
is  noble  ; believe  me,  it  is  noble,  to  remember  his  debt,  and  not  leave  all 
heed  of  it,  as  many  a gay  fellow  of  a courtier  would  have  done,  if  all 
slanders  were  true  that  men  breathe  against  us  gentry,  who  love  a 


434 


MEG-  AND  ALICE 


London  life,  and  a merry;  it  is  well,  it  is  well;  at  a word,  it  is 
noble,  right  noble.” 

“ I shall  bear  him  word  of  your  good  esteem,  sir,  when  I reach 
Windsor  with  this  paper;”  said  George  Page,  as  he  folded  up  the 
quittance  which  the  justice  had  written  out,  and  handed  to  him. 

“ Ay,  do  so,  do  so,  good  youth,  when  you  return  to  Windsor ; but 
that  must  not  be  speedily.  You  must  give  me  your  good  company 
awhile,  master  Page  ; we  cannot  part  so,  we  cannot  part  so  ; by  yea  and 
nay,  I cannot  part  with  you  yet.” 

u I thank  you  heartily  for  your  hospitality,  worshipful  sir ; for  a 
night  I will  gladly  accept  it ; ” said  George  Page. 

“ A night  shall  not  serve,  master  Page  ; a few  days  you  must  spare 
me.  By  cock  and  pye,  I will  not  be  said  nay.  A night  shall  not  serve  ; 
in  good  sooth,  it  shall  not ; give  me  your  hand,  sir,  give  me  your  hand 
upon  it.” 

George  Page,  who  was  not  one  to  withstand  heartiness  of  manner, 
shook  hands  with  the  worthy  justice,  and  promised  to  stay  the  few  days 
he  desired ; although,  in  his  secret  heart,  he  would  have  been  glad  to 
hasten  back  to  Windsor  and  to  Margaret  Gay. 

“ It  is  well  said,  master  Page,  and  it  is  well  said,  indeed.  To- 
morrow I expect  some  cousins  over  here  to  see  me.  Worshipful  master 
Silence,  a brother  justice  of  mine  ; with  his  good  wife,  who  was  a Shallow 
— my  cousin,  Winfred  Shallow  ; and  their  two  children, — my  god- 
daughter Ellen,  and  her  young  brother,  William  ; good  children,  very 
good  children ; good  and  fair,  good  and  fair.” 

11  Bight  glad  shall  I be  to  make  acquaintance  with  so  many  goodly 
scions  of  master  Bobert  Shallow's  family  ; ” said  George  Page. 

“ By’r  lady,  master  Page,  I think  the  Shallows  are  a goodly  family ; 
we  are  known  in  the  county,  we  are  known  in  the  county,  master  Page ; 
Jtis  an  old  coat,  an  old  coat,  and  a respected  coat ; it  blazons  well  ’mongst 
our  country  scutcheons ; its  dozen  white  luces  do  no  shame  to  Glou- 
cestershire ; 5tis  a good  coat,  and  an  old  coat.  Can  there  be  more 
said?  It  is  both  good  and  old.” 

“ It  hath  worn  well,  and  been  born  honorably  ;”  said  George  Page. 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


435 


“ Bodykins,  master  Page,  yon  say  well,  and  you  say  well,  i’faith. 
And  I shall  let  you  see  more  cousins — more  of  the  goodly  family  we 
wot  of.  Mistress  Slender,  that  was  a Shallow — Bridget  Shallow — a cousin 
of  mine,  dwells  here  in  the  house  with  me,  since  her  husband’s  death— 
a worthy  man,  master  Page,  nobody  dare  say  an  ill  word  of  him,  and  he 
broke  his  neck  in  a fox-chase, — and  her  son,  Abraham  Slender,  worthy 
to  be  a Shallow — as  he  is  in  blood,  indeed  and  in  faith.” 
u I shall  be  glad  to  know  them,  sir  ; ” said  George  Page. 
u And  you  shall  know  them  ; and  know  them  soon,  too.  Come  with 
me,  good  master  Page  ; we  shall  find  them  in  the  orchard,  I warrant 
me.  Come  with  me  ; come  with  me.” 

Justice  Shallow,  having  previously  ascertained  that  his  guest  had 
already  dined,  led  the  way  to  the  orchard  ; and  there,  as  he  expected, 
they  found  mistiness  Slender  seated,  knitting,  beneath  an  apple-tree,  be- 
side an  oaken  table,  on  which  was  spread  a dessert  of  fruit  and  cakes, 
sweetmeats,  and  wine. 

u Servant,  sir  ;”  said  mistress  Slender,  looking  over  her  glasses  at  the 
young  stranger,  and  giving  a short  nod  in  answer  to  George  Page’s  low 
bow  towards  her,  as  the  worthy  justice  performed  the  ceremony  of  intro- 
duction. “ It’s  well  junkets  and  pippins  don’t  cool,  standing  in  the  open 
air;”  the  lady  continued,  in  a kind  of  mumbling  undertone  addressed  to 
no  one  in  particular,  but  aimed  at  the  master  of  the  house  ; “ but  if  it 
had  been  a good  hot  chine  and  dumplings,  or  a smoking  sirloin,  it  would 
ha’  fared  the  same.” 

It  was  a fashion  peculiar  to  mistress  Slender — no,  not  quite  peculiar 
to  her,  for  some  good  ladies  have  been  known  to  share  it  in  common 
with  her, — but  it  was  a fashion  of  mistress  Slender’s  to  signify  her  dis- 
pleasure at  the  conduct  of  those  around  her,  by  side-wind  remarks,  mut- 
tered in  a low  grumbling  voice ; and  thus,  on  the  present  occasion,  did 
she  mark  her  disapproval  of  her  cousin,  the  justice,  and  his  guest,  for 
having,  by  their  protracted  talk  in  the  justice-room,  kept  the  dessert 
waiting. 

But  it  was  the  custom  with  those  who  knew  her,  to  pay  not  the 
slightest  regard  to  these  animadversions  of  hers,  since  they  were  spoken 


436 


MEG  AND  ALICE  I 


In  a sort  of  soliloquy,  that  claimed  no  absolute  reply ; so  now,  justice 
Shallow,  as  if  no  such  words  had  been  uttered,  said  to  her:— “And 
where’s  my  cousin  Abraham  ? Where’s  he  ? He  should  be  here ; he 
should  be  here  ; I want  to  make  hin\  known  to  this  Worthy  young  gen- 
tleman, master  George  Page.  Where’s  Abraham  ?” 

“ He's  down  at  the  kennel,  I fancy  ; he’ll  get  his  legs  bit  off,  or  his 
head  torn  to  shivers,  or  his  back  bone  rent  in  twain  some  of  these  odd 
days,  if  he’s  let  to  go  among  those  rampagious  hounds,  all  day  long,  as 
he  does  now  said  mistress  Slender. 

“ My  young  cousin’s  parlous  fond  of  dogs ; his  heart’s  with  the 
hounds  always  ; he’d  take  meat  and  drink  with  ’em,  sleep  with  ’em,  live 
with  ’em,  if  he  could  said  justice  Shallow  to  George  Page  ; “ he’s  fond 
of  dogs  ; vastly  fond  of  dogs.” 

“ He’ll  turn  to  a dog  himself,  if  he’s  let  to  be  with  ’em  so  much 
muttered  mistress  Slender. 

“ Davy,  what  Davy,  I say  !”  shouted  justice  Shallow  to  the  serving- 
man,  of  whom  he  caught  a glimpse  just  then, — the  same  who  had  ushered 
George  Page  in ; “ come  hither,  Davy ; run,  Davy,  and  bid  one  of  the 
lads  speed  down  to  the  kennel,  and  bring  hither  master  Slender ; tell 
him  I want  him  here,  I want  him  here.  And  Davy  ! Davy ! Let  me 
see,  let  me  see ; bid  William  Cook  get  us  an  early  supper  ready  ; my 
young  guest  here,  will  be  glad  of  a timely  meal  after  his  ride  ; and 
Davy  ! Davy  ! No — no  matter  ; go  thy  ways,  Davy.” 

“ The  varlet  should  be  told  to  wear  his  shoes  up  at  heels,  and  not  be 
allowed  to  go  about,  that  slipshod  fashion  said  mistress  Slender,  look- 
ing after  the  serving-man  as  he  ran  off,  with  his  dangling  soles  flacking 
against  his  feet  like  a loose  horse-shoe  ; u but  he’ll  have  kibed  heels  next 
winter,  for  his  pains,  that’s  one  comfort.” 

At  this  moment,  a tall  gangling  lad,  of  about  ten  or  eleven  years  of 
age,  came  leaping  over  a wicket  gate  that  led  from  the  orchard  into  the 
park,  and  came  straight  to  the  table,  exclaiming : — u I haven’t  had  any 
dessert  yet ! Why  wasn’t  I called  1 I’ll  have  some,  though,  or  I’ll 
know  why.” 

He  was  just  going  to  snatch  some  of  the  fruit,  when  suddenly  per 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


437 


ceiving  George  Page,  he  stood  looking  at  the  stranger  with  staring  eyes 
and  gaping  mouth.  The  hand  which  had  been  stretched  out,  was  shyly 
withdrawn,  and  began  to  fumble  with  the  lash  of  a whip  which  he  held 
in  the  other  ; winding  it  round  and  round  his  fingers,  coiling  and  un- 
coiling it,  all  the  time  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  and  his  mouth  open,  gloring 
at  Page. 

“Come  hither,  Abry;”  said  his  mother;  “why,  what  a sight  the 
dogs  have  made  of  thee,  boy.  Here’s  a crumpled  ruff  and  soiled 
doublet !” 

But  the  lad  did  not  move.  His  feet  remained  glued  to  the  spot ; 
his  eyes  and  mouth  were  still  wide-fixed  ; and  he  kept  on  twisting  and 
untwisting  the  lash  of  his  whip  round  his  hand.  The  only  sign  he  gave 
of  having  heard  his  mother,  was  a hunching  shrug  of  one  of  his  shoul- 
ders. 

“ Thou  was’t  called  to  dessert,  believe  me,  cousin  Abraham  said 
justice  Shallow  ; “ I sent  for  thee  just  now  ; did’st  not  meet  Davy  ? I 
sent  him  for  thee  ; I sent  him  to  fetch  thee  ; I sent  him  for  thee,  to 
make  thee  known  to  good  master  Page.  Know  him,  good  worthy  sir ; 
know  my  cousin  Abraham,  I beseech  you.” 

The  ungain  shoulder  hunched  once  more ; the  feet  shifted  and  shuf- 
fled, as  the  cub  stood  first  on  one  leg,  then  upon  the  other  ; hanging  his 
head,  with  eyes  askance,  and  looking  much  like  sir  Chanticleer  under  the 
dispiriting  influence  of  a severe  fit  of  cramp.  But  George  Page  went 
towards  him,  and,  in  his  own  hearty  way,  made  acquaintance  with  him ; 
so  tnat  master  Abraham  was  not  so  long  as  might  otherwise  have  been, 
in  getting  over  his  shyness  sufficiently  to  answer  some  of  the  good-hu- 
moured speeches  with  which  Page  plied  him. 

Next  day  they  became  still  better  friends.  Master  Slender  took  his 
new  acquaintance  to  see  the  kennel ; and  when  he  found  that  George 
was  fond  of  dogs,  and  knew  a great  deal  about  them,  and  imparted  one 
or  two  valuable  secrets  in  the  management  and  cure  of  some  of  the  dis- 
eases to  which  master  Abraham’s  canine  friends  were  subject ; and  when, 
moreover,  he  found  that  George  Page  expressed  much  admiration  of 
these  hounds  of  his  cousin  Shallow’s,  of  the  mode  in  which  the  pack  was 


438 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ! 


trained  and  treated,  of  the  construction  of  their  kennel,  and,  in  short, 
praised  everything  that  he  could  honestly  praise,  in  what  was  so  espe- 
cially interesting  to  master  Abraham  himself,  master  Abraham  took  quite 
a fancy  to  George  Page,  and  vowed  he  liked  him  well-nigh  as  much  as 
Clowder  or  Echo. 

“ By  the  mass,  Pm  sorry  to  part  with  you he  said  to  George  Page, 
on  the  day  before  the  one  fixed  for  his  return  home.  “ I thought  when 
I first  saw  you,  you  were  like  to  turn  out  some  fine  Windsor  spark,  who’d 
treat  a Gloucestershire  lad  like  a clod  or  a turnip ; but  for  all  there’s  no 
court  at  Cotswold  as  there  is  at  your  castle,  I find  you  can  be  civil  and 
likely,  with  us  in  these  country  parts.  ’Slid,  if  you  had  come  over  me 
with  any  of  your  Berkshire  or  London  airs,  I should  have  been  as  like 
to  have  swinged  you  as  spoke  to  you,  for  all  you’re  twice  my  size,  and 
mayhap  twice  my  years,  and  so  I tell  you  fairly.  But  I like  ye ; and  I 
tell  ye  that  as  fairly  too,  la.” 

“ And  I like  you  too,  well,  believe  me,  master  Slender  returned 
Page ; “should  your  cousin,  worshipful  master  Shallow,  ever  come  Wind- 
sor-way, and  bring  you  with  him,  I hope  both  he  and  you  will  visit  us. 
My  father  and  I will  be  proud  to  see  you  at  our  poor  house.” 

With  many  friendly  expressions  on  all  sides,  George  Page  left  the 
house  of  justice  Shallow ; the  worthy  magistrate  himself  coming  to  the 
iron  gates  to  see  his  young  friend  mount,  loading  him  with  greetings  to 
sir  Marmaduke,  and  pressing  him  to  come  as  soon  again  into  Glouces- 
tershire as  might  be  ; while  master  Abraham  hung  about  him,  and  ex- 
pressed his  grief  at  parting,  in  his  own  ungain  fashion,  fairly  blubbering 
out  his  unwillingness  to  see  him  go. 

“ I would  I might  be  hanged,  but  I’m  sorry  to  see  your  horse ;”  he 
sobbed,  as  Daisy,  ready  saddled,  was  brought  round ; “ I like  not  the  beast, 
though  I’ve  no  cause  to  hate  her.  The  jade  never  did  me  harm,  yet  I 
could  find  in  my  heart  to  lash  her  soundly  for  carrying  you  away.” 

“Forgive  Daisy,  for  the  sake  of  her  master,  good  master  Slender;” 
said  Page  smiling.  “ She  bears  me  safely  and  well,  and  you  must  owe 
her  no  grudge  for  doing  her  duty.  So,  bid  her  and  me,  God  speed,  and 
farewell !” 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


439 


“ And  Daisy  is  your  good  mare’s  name  ?”  said  justice  Shallow,  as  he 
stood  patting  her  throat,  while  George  Page  got  into  the  stirrups  ; “ mar- 
ry  a good  mare,  and  a good  name ; she  is  as  white  as  a daisy ; a fitting 
name,  a very  fitting  name ; nay,  it  can’t  be  but  Daisy.” 

Not  long  after  George  Page  reached  home,  Frank  Ford  also  returned 
to  Windsor.  He  too  was  on  horseback,  and  as  he  rode  into  the  town,  he 
stopped  at  the  Star  inn,  where  his  horse  was  usually  stabled,  there  being 
no  accommodation  of  the  kind  at  his  father’s  house.  While  he  stood  at 
the  door  of  the  hostelry,  drinking  a glass  of  small  ale  after  his  hot  and 
dusty  ride,  Poll  Quickly,  the  bar-maid,  who  had  handed  it  to  him,  dropped 
him  a deferential  curtsey,  and  asked  whether  he  would  not  like  a cool 
seat  under  the  spreading  elm  in  front  of  the  house. 

u Thanks,  good  mistress  Polly said  the  young  man  ; “ but  sooth  to 
say,  I’ve  ridden  far  enough  this  morning  to  make  lounging  here  against 
the  doorpost  a welcomer  change,  after  so  long  a seat  in  the  saddle,  than 
the  bench  yonder.  Besides,  here  I can  enjoy  a gossip  with  thee,  and 
thou  can’st  tell  me  all  the  Windsor  news,  which  will  be  a godsend  to 
one  who  has  been  so  long  away.” 

u Troth,  master  Ford,  and  it’s  like  your  worship’s  kind  heart  to  say 
so,  and  to  think  so.  Many’s  the  young  gentleman  that  would  hold  his 
head  too  high,  and  be  too  much  the  gentleman,  for  being  a collegiate, 
to  be  gentle  enough  to  care  for  a gossip  with  one  that  can’t  speak  Greek, 
I give  Heaven  praise;  but  you  hold  it  no  dishonesty  to  idle  away  a 
half  hour  with  an  honest  maid,  which  I detest  I am ; blessing  on  your 
heart  for  it !” 

“Well,  and  what  is  the  best  news  with  you,  mistress  Polly;  and 
what’s  the  newest  among  the  Windsor  folk 

“ Faith,  bad’s  the  best  of  my  news,  master  Ford,  good  as  it  is  of  you 
to  ask  that ;”  she  replied.  “ A bar-maid’s  life  is  not  the  life  of  a lady. 
Travellers  are  few  of  them  lords,  fewer  of  ’em,  angels  ; and  fewer  still, 
have  any  angels  to  bestow  on  the  bar-maid  ; a paltry  tester  is  the  oftest 
coin  that  finds  its  way  to  her  hand,  from  travellers’  pockets  ; and  seldom 
have  they  eyes  to  see  that  her  coif  would  be  all  the  better  for  a shilling’s 
worth  of  ribbon ; but  that’s  neither  here  nor  there.” 


440 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ! 


“ I would  not  so  disparage  the  coif  thou  wear’st  now,  as  to  say  that 
it  needs  a new  ribbon ; but  here’s  a shilling  that  will  replace  the  bright 
one  thou  hast,  when  it  fades said  Ford  smiling,  as  he  took  the  hint  so 
palpably  aimed.  ce  And  now  for  the  rest  of  thy  news.” 

“ First  and  foremost,  there’s  sir  Paul  Pureton’s  news  ; he’s  dead  ; ” 
said  Poll  Quickly  ; “ then  master  Hugh  Evans,  the  Welsh  latin  scholar, 
is  to  be  reader  in  his  place,  which  will  make  him  sir  Hugh,  of  course  ; 
then  there’s  little  old  Will  Patterly,  the  barber  ; he’s  joined  hands  in 
the  dance  of  death,  too  ; but  he  was  past  his  work,  so  there’s  no  great 
loss  to  Windsor,  and  but  small  gain  to  the  worms,  for  such  a starveling 
body  as  he  was,  will  make  but  a spare  meal  for  ’em.  A plumper  morsel 
they’ll  get  in  Dick  Cleaveholm,  the  butcher,  who,  they  say,  is  well-nigh 
off  the  hooks,  and  can’t  last  a week.  A many’s  the  carcass  he’s  chop- 
ped up,  and  now  he’s  to  be  cut  off  himself ! Well,  Heaven’s  above  all !” 
66  What  a catalogue  of  deaths  thou  hast  to  tell  me,  good  mistress  Pol- 
ly !”  exclaimed  Frank  Ford  ; “ is  there  no  pleasant  news  stirring?  Noth- 
ing but  dismal  tidings  in  Windsor  ? ” 

u Ay  now,  I warrant  me,  it’s  weddings,  and  not  funerals,  you  young 
folks  love  to  hear  of said  Poll ; “ well,  there’s  something  going  on 
that’ll  lead  to  weddings,  or  I’m  much  mistook.”  And  she  nodded  her 
head  mysteriously. 

“ Indeed  ; let  us  hear  that,  by  all  means,”  he  said. 

“ Why  then,  it’s  not  for  nothing  young  Ambrose  Barley-broth  goes 
about  hanging  his  head,  and  casting  sheep’s  eyes  at  a certain  merry 
maid  of  Windsor ; it’s  not  for  nothing  that  his  father  and  mother  asked 
young  mistress  Gay’s  father  and  mother  how  their  daughter  stood  affect- 
ed to  their  son,  which  I heard  was  the  case  no  farther  back  than  yester- 
day se’nnight,  when  they  spent  the  evening  at  the  farm.” 
u And  what  was  the  answer  to  the  suit  ? ” 

u Nay,  that  I’ve  not  yet  learned  ; but  I shall,  depend  on’t.  Trust  me 
for  feretting  out  the  rights  of  a matter,  when  I choose.  I have  an  eye, 
I thank  Heaven,  and  an  ear,  though  you  mightn’t  think  it,  to  look  in 
my  face,  master  Ford.  I have  both  eyes  and  ears  for  many  a quiet 
thing,  that  sly  folks  think  to  keep  snug  to  themselves.  There’s  master 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


441 


George  Page,  now,  fancies  he’s  mighty  clever,  and  that  his  thoughts  are 
hid  up  in  the  clouds,  because  he  stoops  his  head  like  a goose  going  un- 
der a doorway.” 

“ Why,  George  Page  bears  his  head  high,  and  his  face  open  to  every 
gazer said  Frank  Ford,  laughing. 

“You’re  right,  master  Ford,  he  doth  so;”  said  the  imperturbable 
Poll ; “ but  it’s  for  that  very  reason,  that  when  he  does  hold  his  head 
down,  folks  with  half  a grain  of  eye  and  ear,  may  see  he  has  something 
to  hide  in  his  face  and  his  heart.” 

“ But  have  you  seen  him  thus?  What  do  you  infer  from  that,  good 
mistress  Polly?  Do  you  believe  that  my  friend  George  Page  is  in  love, 
as  well  as  Ambrose  Barley-broth  ? ” 

“ Troth,  master  Ford,  I believe  what  I believe  ; I refer  what  I refer ; 
and  I know  what  I know  said  Poll  Quickly,  becoming  more  myste- 
rious, in  proportion  as  she  perceived  her  companion’s  manner  denote 
stonger  interest. 

“And  what  dost  thou  know?  Anything  for  certain,  of  George 
Page’s  liking?”  pursued  Ford. 

“ For  certain  is  one  thing,  and  for  uncertain’s  another,  and  guess- 
work is  a third said  she  oracularly ; “ but  as  true  as  a carp’s  jawbone 
staunches  a cut  finger,  so  sure  is  master  George  Page  in  love.” 

“ And  with  whom  ?”  said  Ford  eagerly. 

“ Ay,  that’s  the  word  he  keeps  so  close ; but  though  he  speaks  it  not 
it’s  as  clear  to  be  seen,  to  a quick  eye,  as  though  he  bawled  it  at  the  mar- 
ket-cross ; and  mine’s  no  dull  eye,  I praise  Heaven  for  it.” 

“ It  is  bright  and  sparkling,  and  will  pierce  many  a heart,  I warrant 
it,  when  set  off  by  gay  colours  ; let  thy  next  knot  of  ribbons  vie  in  hue 
with  the  rainbow,  I pry’thee,  mistress  Polly said  the  young  man, 
pressing  on  her  an  additional  gratuity. 

“ Lord,  Lord  ! see  how  impatient  you  young  scholars  are,  when 
there’s  anything  to  be  learnt ;”  said  she,  pocketing  the  coin;  “you  think 
no  price  too  great  for  knowledge,  and  that’s  a worthy  purchase,  Lord 
knows,  and  I’ll  bear  witness.  What  can  money  be  better  spent  in,  than 
in  learning,  I should  like  to  know  ?” 


442 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ] 


“ Then  let  me  have  thy  lore,  good  mistress  Polly  said  Frank  Ford  ; 
“ come,  what  hast  thou  to  inform  me,  in  the  matter  of  George  Page’s 
love  ? I would  fain  know  who  is  his  choice  ?” 

“ As  for  informing  any  lore  to.  such  a scholar  as  your  worship,  it 
seems  a likely  thing,  indeed,  I could ; but  since  the  best  sprag  learner 
that  ever  learnt,  can’t  hope  to  learn  what’s  passing  behind  his  back 
without  being  told,  why,  I’ll  e’en  make  bold  to  tell  your  worship  what 
has  taken  place,  since  you’ve  been  away,  in  young  master  Page’s 
heart.” 

“ Ay,  do,  I pry’thee  said  Ford. 

“ Well  then,  both  the  long  and  the  short  of  it,  and  the  very  yea  and 
the  no  is,  that  master  George  Page  is  in  love  with  one  of  the  merry 
maids  of  Windsor — and  you  know  well  enough  who  are  the  two  that 
bear  that  nay-name.” 

“ Ay,  ay,  I know  well  enough  ! And  which  of  them,  I pry’thee,  is 
George’s  choice  1 ” said  Frank  Ford,  hurriedly. 

“ W ell,  as  I told  you,  I have  an  eye  to  see,  and  an  ear  to  hear ; and 
though  he  beat  about  the  bush,  and  wouldn’t  have  had  me  see  which  of 
’em  he  had  the  best  mind  to,  yet  as  clear  as  eggs  is  eggs — speciously 
new  laid  ones, — I could  make  out  that  he  asked  most  direct  questions 
about  mistress  Alice  May.” 

“ I thought  as  much muttered  Frank  Ford  between  his  ground 
teeth,  as  his  thoughts  reverted  to  a certain  April  morning,  when  George 
Page’s  manner  in  alluding  to  Alice’s  kiss  had  appeared  to  him  studious- 
ly indifferent. 

“Yes;”  continued  Poll  Quickly,  still  more  glibly,  for  his  muttered 
exclamation  had  confirmed  her  in  the  impression  which  had  gradually 
gained  ground  with  herself,  that  Alice  was  in  reality  the  one  George 
Page  preferred ; “ yes,  he  certainly  led  most  to  her  praise,  when  I was 
speaking  of  them  both ; and  moreover,  soon  after  that,  when  I fell  in 
with  the  two  merry  maidens,  spinning  in  the  porch  like  notable  house- 
wives as  they  are, — no  gadabouts  are  they,  I’ll  warrant  ye,  but  a bless- 
ing to  any  man  for  a wife, — I mind  me,  that  mistress  Alice  asked  a 
many  questions  about  what  he  thought  of  them,  and  what  he  had  sai  l 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OR  WINDSOR. 


443 


of  them  ; whilst  mistress  Margaret  was  too  busy  with  her  wheel  to  note 
much  what  I talked  of.” 

“ It’s  but  too  clear  ; I ever  dreaded  this.  Who  could  see  her,  and 
not  love  her?  And  he  has  seen  her  and  known  her  from  her  childhood;5 
thought  Frank  Ford. 

u And  now,  I’ll  warrant,  we  shall  have  you  making  up  to  the  other 
merry  maiden  ; and  so,  we  shall  have  a double  wedding ; Lord  forgive 
us  ! ” said  Poll  Quickly.  Then  gaining  assurance  from  the  start  with 
which  Frank  Ford  received  this  proposition,  as  he  woke  up  from  the 
momentary  trance  into  which  this  retrospect  had  plunged  him,  she  went 
on  to  say  “ Well,  well,' it’s  a strange  world  to  see  ! Ybung  men  and 
maidens  will  be  thinking  of  loving  each  other,  and  marrying,  and  all 
kinds  of  housewifery,  and  settling,  and  new  relationships,  and  Heaven 
above  knows  what  beside  ! Marry,  your  worship’s  a wag,  and  knows  hour 
to  fix  upon  a'comely  bride  like  the  rest  of  us ! And  a comely  bride 
she’ll  make,  will  mistress  Margaret ; and  a merry  wooing  and  a speedy 
wedding  may  you  have  of  it  with  her,  I say,  and  I pray  too.” 

u It  is  kindly  meant,  and  kindly  wished ; I thank  thee  for  thy 
meaning  and  thy  wish,  mistress  Polly;”  said  Frank  Ford,  as  he  took 
his  leave  of  the  Star  hostelry,  and  its  communicative  bar-maid. 

That  evening  there  was  to  be  a merry-making  at  farmer  Page’s,  to 
celebrate  the  return  of  his  son  from  Gloucestershire.  All  the  young 
people  of  the  neighbourhood  were  to  be  there ; and  when  it  was  found 
that  Frank  had  also  come  home  from  college  that  very  day,  an  invitation 
was  despatched,  begging  him  to  join  the  party.  He  was  in  no  mood  for 
mirth  ; he  thought  of  pleading  fatigue  from  his  ride,  a headache,-— any- 
thing— to  excuse  him  from  going  among  his  friends,  two  of  whom,  at 
any  rate,  he  dreaded  to  meet.  He  might  have  honestly  urged  either  of 
these  pleas,  for  his  agitation  since  he  had  heard  of  George  Page’s  love 
for  Alice  May  had  made  him  feel  ill— sick  at  heart— sick  of  the  world, 
burning  with  mortification  and  a sense  of  ill-usage.  Then  again  he  re- 
resolved he  would  go,  and  satisfy  himself  with  his  own  eyes,  of  what  he 
already  felt  but  too  well  assured.  He  thought  the  pain  of  seeing  them 
together,  and  of  witnessing  the  tokens  of  their  attachment,  would  be 
even  less  agony  than  the  tormenting  tricks  which  his  fancy  now  played 


444 


MEG  AND  ALICE  : 


him,  as  he  pictured  the  girl  he  loved  receiving  the  vows,  and  responding 
to  the  affection,  of  another  lover. 

“ Why  did  I not  speak,  ere  I left  her  last  ? I might  then  have  en- 
gaged her  liking — ’twould  have  been  no  treachery  to  Page,  had  I fore- 
stalled him,  though  I may  not  now  seek  to  supplant  him.  For  she  cer- 
tainly did  once  prefer  me — a thousand  innocent  tokens  betrayed  her — a 
thousand  unconscious  confessions  of  regard  showed  that  I was  not  in- 
different to  her — nay,  that  I was  dear  to  her  above  others.  Could  she 
then  forget  this,  when  another  than  myself  spoke  to  her  of  love?  But 
yes — women  are  all  alike  ; — the  mere  notion  of  a lover  is  irresistible  to 
a young  girl — it  turns  her  head — and  the  first  man  who  offers  himself  to 
her  in  that  shape,  is  accepted,  with  no  pause  given  to  reflection  that  there 
is  perchance  one,  who  has  already  touched  her  heart.  An  avowed  suitor 
is  better  worth  than  a silent  lover — though  secretly  preferred  as  well  as 
preferring — to  a young  girl,  whose  vanity  is  ever  her  strongest  passion. 
Then  why  was  I this  silent  lover?  Yet,  let  me  not  reproach  myself, 
since  the  blame  is  due  to  her  lightness  of  heart,  her  fickle  fancy — no 
stabler  than  gossamer  or  thistle-down — which  the  first  wanton  breath 
wafts  elsewhere.  I should  rather  rejoice  than  repine,  that  such  innate 
levity,  with  so  much  seeming  candour,  fell  not  to  my  share.  I might 
have  trusted  the  affection  I thought  I read  in  those  soft  eyes,  and  so 
have  gathered  future  shame  instead  of  present  disappointment.  Better 
perhaps  as  it  is  ! But  I will  go  ; that  I may  learn  to  look  upon  those 
eyes  unmoved — to  steel  myself  against  their  softness  by  reading  false- 
hood where  I once  imagined  I beheld  tenderness  and  truth  itself.” 

With  his  heart  full  of  such  thoughts,  it  may  well  be  conceived  that 
Frank  Ford’s  manner  of  greeting  his  old  friends,  when  he  went  among 
them  that  evening,  was  not  particularly  gracious  or  ingratiating.  His 
brow  was  moody,  his  tone  was  haughty,  his  speech  sarcastic  and  abrupt. 

On  his  arrival  at  farmer  Page’s,  he  found  all  the  guests  assembled  ; 
the  dancing  had  already  commenced  with  great  vigour,  in  the  largest 
barn  ; and  the  first  thing  Frank  Ford’s  eyes  encountered  there,  was  the 
lithe  figure  of  Alice  May,  led  by  George  Page,  as  the  young  couple  per- 
formed together  with  great  spirit  the  evolutions  of  a country-dance. 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OP  WINDSOR. 


445 


He  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so  beautiful,  so  animated,  so 
happy.  The  fact  is,  her  partner  was  just  whispering  in  her  ear  the  news 
that  Frank  Ford  had  arrived  in  Windsor  that  morning,  and  that  he 
might  be  expected  among  them  every  moment.  There  was  a sparkling 
light  in  her  eye,  and  a bright  colour  in  her  cheek,  as  she  bounded  along 
the  dance,  with  her  head  bent  a little  towards  her  partner,  listening  to 
his  low-breathed  smiling  words.  It  was  all  seen  by  him  who  watched 
them ; and, — interpreted  after  his  own  fashion, — seemed  to  confirm  all 
that  he  had  dreaded  and  heard. 

Presently  the  beaming  eye  met  his  ; it  was  suddenly  withdrawn,  in 
bashful  surprise — the  glowing  cheek  mantled  yet  deeper  in  colour,  with 
pleasure  at  seeing  him  ; but  in  both  startled  look  and  blushing  cheek, 
Frank  Ford  only  read  fresh  proof ; for  he  thought  them  evidence  of  her 
consciousness  that  she  had  wrongd  him. 

u There  wanted  not  spoken  words  and  plighted  faith  between  us  ; ” 
he  thought ; “ she  as  clearly  knows  she  has  been  wanting  in  faith  to  me 
— that  she  has  broken  faith  with  me, — as  though  we  had  been  solemnly 
betrothed,  and  had  pledged  a thousand  oaths,  before  she  sealed  a heart- 
less bargain  with  him.  Yain,  unthinking  girl ! ” 

“ You  take  so  strong  an  interest  in  the  dancing,  though  but  a look- 
er-on as  yet,  master  Ford,”  said  a cheerful  voice  near  him,  “ that  you 
have  not  had  time  to  greet  your  old  friend  and  neighbour.  Come,  sup- 
pose you  lead  me  to  the  lower  end  of  the  floor,  and  let  us  join  the  dan- 
cers together ; as  neither  you  nor  I have  met  with  a partner,  let  us  take 
pity  on  each  other.  What  say  you  ? ” 

Thus  challenged  by  Margaret  G-ay,  Frank  Ford  could  not  refuse, 
and  they  accordingly  took  their  places  below  the  rest  of  the  couples,  to 
dance  their  way  gradually  up  to  the  top  of  the  set. 

But  it  was  not  long  before  Margaret  perceived  the  abstraction  of  her 
partner,  and  the  little  attention  he  gave  to  the  requisites  of  the  figure. 
She  rallied  him  upon  it,  and  asked  him  if  he  still  prided  himself  so 
highly  upon  his  college  studies,  as  to  despise  dancing,  and  Windsor 
sports  and  friends ; as  in  that  case,  she  should  be  provoked  to  send  him 
another  fairy-favor  from  the  old  beech-tree  in  the  forest. 


446 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ; 


“ In  good  sadness,  mistress  Margaret,  I think  the  sin  of  contempt 
may  be  sooner  laid  to  the  account  of  my  Windsor  friends  than  to  my- 
self ;• — I hold  them  only  too  fondly  in  remembrance.” 

“ Nay,  old  friends  cannot  be  loved  too  well  or  too  faithfully re- 
turned she. 

w I think  so  he  said. 

” Then  still  let  your  old  friends  and  neighbours  dwell  in  your  affec- 
tion, master  Frank ; and  let  us  simple  bodies  have  the  pleasure  of  be- 
lieving we  need  fear  no  rivals  in  your  grand  new  acquaintances,  Plato,  or 
Horace.  No  disparagement  to  your  noble  books,  but  homely  wit  may 
sometimes  stead  a man,  where  book-learning  fails,  when  a warm  friend  is 
at  hand  to  give  present  advice,  and  the  library  is  out  of  reach.  Old 
friends  and  old  books  are  both  valued  by  the  wise  man  ; and  master 
Ford  is  too  wise  to  disdain  the  one  because  he  has  learned  the  worth  of 
the  other.  He,  too,  who  may  command  the  best  of  each.” 

“ Were  I but  as  sure  of  my  friends’  love  for  me,  as  I am  of  mine 
for  them,  there  could  be  no  danger  of  any  change  in  our  old  friendship 
said  Frank  Ford. 

“ Believe  me,  master  Ford,  the  way  to  make  sure  of  friends’  love  is 
to  feel  sure  of  it said  Margaret  Gay.  “ Do  not  doubt  their  affection 
because  they  may  not  be  always  showing  it,  or  telling  you  of  it.  The 
most  valuable  goods  are  ofttimes  the  least  displayed  by  their  owner  ; 
for  too  much  airing,  or  bringing  into  light,  will  decay  or  fade  the  fabric. 
Be  satisfied  to  know  where  love  is  garnered  for  thee,  and  do  not  risk 
wearing  it  out,  by  seeking  to  have  it  too  much  exhibited.” 

“ I care  not  for  the  parade  of  love,  assuredly  ; but  may  there  not  be 
equal  risk  of  finding  it  flown  when  we  need  it,  should  we  fail  to  prove  it 
is  still  there  by  occasional  beholding  ?”  said  Ford.  “ May  we  not  even 
have  been  too  credulous,  or  too  presumptuous  at  first,  in  believing  that 
it  ever  did  exist  for  us  ? There  is  my  old  friend,  George  Page,  for  in- 
stance ; I always  fancied  he  felt  the  strong  regard  for  me,  which  I have 
for  him  : yet  there  he  is  dancing  away,  with  but  a nod  towards  me  from 
a distance,  though  we  have  not  met  for  months.” 

“ He  will  greet  you  warmly  enough,  be  sure,  when  the  measure  is 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


447 


ended  replied  she.  “ You  would  not  have  him  quit  the  dance  and  his 
partner,  to  hid  you  welcome,  as  if  you  were  a stranger,  and  needed 
words  of  courtesy  to  assure  you  of  a kind  reception  ?” 

u By  no  means  ; I would  not  interfere  with  his  duties  to  his  partner, 
on  any  account said  Frank,  with  a hurried  accent,  and  a bitterness  of 
tone,  that  told  a secret  to  his  companion. 

“ So,  so ; my  gentleman  is  jealous,  is  he?  And  of  poor  George, 
too  ! He  little  knows” — and  her  thought  ended  with  a smile. 

Presently,  she  perceived  that,  in  the  course  of  the  dance,  Frank  had 
had  occasion  to  take  Alice’s  hand  ; that  he  had  sought  to  retain  it ; but 
that  the  figure  requiring  a quick  change  of  hands,  Alice  had  been  com- 
pelled to  withdraw  it  hastily  from  his,  that  she  might  return  it  to  her 
partner ; and  after  this,  Margaret  saw  Frank’s  face  cloud  over  more 
moodily  than  before. 

“ You  would  have  me  believe  in  the  lasting  existence  of  kind  feeling, 
Margaret he  said,  biting  his  lip,  “ and  here  I find  a friend  whom  I 
have  known  from  childhood,  and  who,  I flattered  myself,  had  some  regard 
for  me,  snatching  away  her  hand,  as  if  I had  been  an  adder  among  vio- 
lets she  stooped  to  gather.” 

u In  the  ardour  of  dancing,  friendship  is  forgotten she  answered, 
smiling ; “ to  the  claims  of  a figure,  even  those  of  an  old  friend  must 
give  way.” 

“ Truly,  it  seems  so  returned  Frank.  u To  a light-hearted  girl, 
the  present  claim  is  ever  the  most  urgent ; be  it  the  figure  of  a dance — 
the  colour  of  a kirtle — the  image  of  a new  lover — or  whatever  demands 
her  attention  for  the  time  being.” 

“ Do  you  learn  these  slanders  upon  poor  girlhood  from  your  favorite 
authors,  master  Ford  ? Beshrew  me,  I think  we  have  cause  of  grudge 
against  them,  if  they  teach  you  no  kinder  thoughts  of  your  old  friends 
at  home.” 

Just  then  the  dance  concluded;  and  George  Page  came  up,  with  his 
usual  hearty  manner,  to  shake  hands  with  Frank  Ford,  and  bid  him  wel- 
come back  to  Windsor. 

There  was  no  resisting  his  cordial  frankness,  and  for  a few  moments. 


448 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ! 


Ford  forgot  all,  in  the  pleasnre  of  finding  his  hand  once  more  within  the 
grasp  of  his  old  friend  and  companion. 

But  when  George  Page  turned  towards  Alice,  who  was  leaning  upon 
his  arm,  and  put  her  hand  within  Ford’s,  saying : — ■“  Here  is  another 
Windsor  favorite  of  yours ; you  must  dance  with  Alice  May  the  next 
measure ; ” Frank  saw  in  this  but  the  action  of  an  engaged  lover,  who 
permitted  his  mistress  to  dance  one  dance  with  the  new-comer  ; and  in 
consequence,  all  his  former  moody  restraint  and  coldness  returned  upon 
him. 

This  was  terribly  apparent  to  Alice,  during  the  silent  progress 
through  the  dance  which  they  made  together.  She  could  not  speak, 
from  timidity,  from  emotion  at  seeing  him  again,  and  from  dread  of  she 
knew  not  what,  which  his  manner  seemed  to  forebode  ; and  he,  fancying 
that  her  silence  proceeded  from  a consciousness  of  wrong,  was  equally 
reserved  with  herself.  At  length  the  dance  came  to  an  end  ; and,  lead- 
ing her  to  a seat,  which  happened  to  be  near  Margaret  Gay,  he  bowed 
coldly,  and  withdrew. 

“ Why  sweetheart,  why  Alice  ! ” whispered  her  friend,  u look  not  so 
shame-faced  and  downcast,  as  though  thou  wert  to  blame,  not  he.  Out 
upon  it ! Here’s  a trembling  white  lip,  and  a glistening  eye ; and  all 
for  what,  forsooth  ? Because  a young  moon-stricken  simpleton  chooses 
to  come  home  and  fancy  a thousand  things,  instead  of  seeing  the  plain 
one,  straight  before  his  nose.  Marry,  this  is  not  the  way  to  cure  him  of 
his  jealous  lunes,  his  foolish  crochety  humours.  Trust  to  me,  Alice ; 
and  let  us  teach  him  a lesson  that’ll  be  better  for  him  and  for  thee,  both 
now  and  hereafter.” 

11  What  would’st  thou  have  me  do,  Meg  ? ” faltered  Alice. 

“ In  the  first  place  I would  have  thee  twinkle  away  that  tear  from 
thine  eye,  till  it  shine  out  with  the  lustre  proper  to  it ; next,  let  thy  lip 
rather  smile,  than  quiver.  So,  that’s  well;  thou’rt  now  more  like  thy- 
self. Next,  I would  have  thee  let  George  Page  behave  towards  thee  as 
I shall  bid  him,  if  he  will  be  won  to  act  a part  in  the  play  I would  have 
performed  for  the  entertainment  and  better  schooling  of  young  master 
scholar  there ; I half  fear  I may  have  some  difficulty  with  George,  as  I 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


449 


know  how  slow  these  men  are  to  join  one  against  another  in  a plot,  which 
shall  help  us  girls  to  a sweet  morsel  of  revenge.  Yet  I shall  constrain 
him  to  do  as  I wish,  as  he  values  my  kindness,  and  at  the  risk  of  its 
forfeiture  ; and  thus  I make  sure  of  him.  Be  but  thou  faithful  to  our 
scheme,  and  I warrant  me,  between  us,  we’ll  read  the  young  collegian  a 
lesson  he  shall  remember.” 

“ Art  quite  sure  thy  scheme  may  not  end  in  being  caught  thyself, 
Meg,  as  it  did  when  we  were  pent  in  the  bole  of  the  beech-tree,  and 
were  not  allowed  to  escape  without  paying  toll?”  said  Alice,  with  her 
usual  smile. 

“ Fear  not ; ” returned  Margaret,  in  the  same  manner  ; “ fear  nothing. 
Now  thou  hast  discarded  that  doleful  visage,  and  I see  thee  wear  thy  own 
face  once  more,  I will  expect  nothing  but  discomfiture  for  jealous-pate  ; 
triumph  for  us.” 

George  Page  now  came  towards  them  to  say  that  a game  of  Barley- 
break  had  been  proposed  ; that  the  dancers  were  dispersing,  and  that  the 
sport  was  about  to  commence  in  the  home-paddock. 

Margaret  Gay  hastily  found  means  to  inform  Page  of  Frank’s  jealous 
freak,  of  her  plan  to  convince  him  of  his  error  by  allowing  him  to  con- 
tinue in  it  for  a few  hours,  and  then  showing  him  its  absurdity  by  con- 
fessing their  own  mutual  engagement.  She  urged  upon  Page  that  this 
would  be  for  his  friend’s  future  welfare ; as  it  would,  in  all  probability, 
shame  him  out  of  his  suspicious  folly,  and  prevent  his  rendering  Alice 
and  himself  uneasy  by  any  such  whims  hereafter. 

George  Page  laughed  at  her  eagerness,  but  suffered  himself  to  be 
persuaded  to  act  the  part  of  a favored  lover  towards  Alice  for  a short 
space,  on  condition  that  the  period  of  Frank  Ford’s,  torment  should  not 
be  unreasonably  protracted. 

“ Never  fear,  never  fear  ; do  you  and  Alice  play  your  parts  truly, 
and  I’ll  engage  for  a happy  ending.  Here,  take  her  hand,  and  lead  her 
away  to  the  home-paddock,  while  I go  and  seek  my  crotchety  student.” 

Margaret  Gay  hurried  au%y,  and  found  Frank  Ford  already  upon  the 
ground,  standing  a little  apart  from  the  gay  party  who  were  forming 
themselves  into  groups  and  couples,  preparatory  to  a bout  at  their 


450 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ! 


favorite  game  of  Barley-break.  He  scarcely  noted  her  approach,  while 
his  eye  caught  that  of  George  and  Alice  hand  in  hand,  as  they  came 
towards  the  spot. 

44  Of  course,  he  couples  with  her  ; he  waits  not  the  decision  by  lot 
which  assigns  the  rest  of  the  couples  to  each  other ;”  muttered  Ford  to 
himself ; 44  they  staid  behind  together,  on  purpose,  no  doubt,  that  he 
might  engage  her  for  the  game.  Yet  he  was  sure  of  her — as  sure,  at 
least,  as  a man  can  be  of  such  a light,  inconsequent  moth,  that  flutters 
around  the  flame,  unconscious  of  the  ardour  with  which  it  burns ; but 
she  may  be  singed  herself  in  time.” 

Margaret  stood  near  to  Frank  Ford’s  side,  and  it  ,vas  scarce  difficult 
to  read  in  his  troubled  brow,  the  thoughts  that  occupied  his  heart. 
u They  have  made  up  all  the  couples,  beside  ourselves,  masjber  Ford 
said  Margaret ; “let  us  take  our  stand  together,  or  we  shall  not  find  a 
place,  save  in  the  centre  division,  and  you  know  what  that’s  called !” 

44  Ay,  it  is  called  4 hell ;’  ” replied  he;  then  added  in  a mutter  ; 44  I 
am  there  already,  methinks,  watching  them.” 

44  Are  }rou  one  of  the  sober-minded  youths  who  think  Barley-break  a 
naughty  sinful  game,  and  an  ill  mode  of  passing  time,  master  Ford  ?” 
asked  Margaret  Gay,  with  a sly  smile,  and  a glance  at  his  gloomy  look ; 

I’m  told  there  are  such  ; mayhap,  your  books  have  taught  you  to  turn 
Puritan,  or  Brownist,  or  other  upturner  of  eyes  at  harmless  mirth  or 
innocent  pastime  ? Good  lack  ! what  a lowering  frown  at  our  poor  rural 
play  ! I fear  me,  master  Ford,  all  this  catching  and  frolicking,  and  light 
running  to  and  fro,  with  the  rest  of  the  wicked  doings  at  this  same  Bar- 
ley-break, find  but  little  favor  in  such  grave  and  worshipful  sight  as 
yours.” 

44  Pshaw  !”  exclaimed  Ford,  as  he  led  the  laughing  girl  to  join  the 
players  ; as  much  to  put  a stop  to  her  banter,  as  that  he  had  any  mind  to 
take  part  in  what  was  going  forward. 

44  They  found  the  middle  compartment^  already  occupied  by  George 
Page  and  Alice  May ; who,  in  the  casting  of  the  lots,  according  to  the 
laws  of  the  game,  had  been  allotted  this  station.  It  was  termed  being 
4 in  hell;’  and  it  was  the  duty  of  the  couple  thus  situated,  to  begin  the 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


451 


game  by  endeavouring  to  catch  the  rest.  When  they  succeeded,  and  a 
fresh  couple  wajs  captured,  a change  of  situation  took  place  ; but  there 
was  some  difficulty  in  achieving  this,  as  the  couple  1 in  hell’  were  bound 
not  to  break  hands.  The  others  might  run  hither  and  thither,  sepa- 
rately,  as  far  apart  as  they  pleased,  so  that  they  kept  within  bounds — - 
which  were  two  appointed  spaces,  on  each  side  the  centre  portion ; the 
ground  occupied  in  the  sport  being  divided  into  three  compartments 
altogether. 

And  now  the  sport  began.  As  may  be  imagined,  infinite  were  the 
scufflings,  the  hustlings,  the  shriekings,  the  pushings,  the  pullings,  the 
dodgings,  the  dartings,  the  sereamings,  the  evadings,  and  the  seekings  to 
be  caught,  on  the  part  of  the  several  runners  engaged  in  the  different 
sets  of  players ; for,  as  there  were  but  three  couples  to  each  game  of 
Barley-break,  so  there  had  to  be  several  sets  or  games  made  up  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  field. 

In  such  a sport,  where  it  was  the  privilege  of  each  swain  who  cap- 
tured his  damsel,  to  salute  her  as  she  became  in  turn  coupled  with  him, 
it  naturally  led  to  a great  deal  of  wilful  catching,  or  letting  slip,  as  the 
case  might  be,  among  the  players,  according  as  they  stood  affected  to- 
wards the  object  of  chase  or  escape.  Connivance,  contrivance,  voluntary 
evasion,  pertinacious  pursuit,  all  in  turn  were  practised  by  the  young 
people ; and  it  may  be  conceived  that  plenty  of  opportunity  was  thus 
afforded  for  the  carrying  out  of  Margaret  Gay’s  scheme  for  confirming 
Frank  Ford  in  his  groundless  fears  regarding  the  attachment  between 
George  Page  and  Alice  May. 

At  length,  after  having  plagued  and  tormented  him  to  her  heart’s 
content  during  the  whole  afternoon,  till  he  was  well-nigh  goaded  into 
breaking  away  from  the  party,  and  vowing  never  more  to  return  among 
them  ; it  so  happened  that  Margaret  Gay,  once  more  coupled  by  the 
chances  of  the  game  with  Frank  Ford,  found  herself  in  the  centre  com- 
partment, and  that  it  was  their  turn,  hand-in-hand,  to  try  and  catch  the 
rest.  She  could  not  resist  the  impulse  she  felt,  to  make  an  attempt  at 
capturing  George  Page,  who  ran  close  past  her,  at  that  moment ; and 
who,  as  willing  as  she,  threw  himself  in  her  way,  and  suffered  himself 


452 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ! 


to  become  a prisoner.  At  the  same  instant,  Alice,  whose  heart  was 
perhaps  incapable  of  longer  withstanding  the  sight  of  Frank’s  misery, 

• — which  evidently  increased  with  each  hour,  and  was  becoming  more 
and  more  intolerable,  and  less  to  be  concealed, — brushed  so  near  to  his 
extended  arm,  that  he  readily  effected  her  seizure.  Somehow,  the  kiss 
which  thus  became  his,  by  right  of  capture,  was  yielded  with  a gentle- 
ness that  melted  his  resentment;  and  made  the  lover’s  feelings  towards 
his  supposed  perjured  mistress,  partake  more  of  the  nature  of  those  he 
had  experienced  when  he  first  touched  those  lips  among  the  park  trees, 
than  he  could  have  believed  possible. 

“ There  is  magic  in  their  rosy  softness;”  he  said  to  himself;  u it  is 
thus  that  these  little  witches  confound  our  very  senses,  making  us  forget 
what  we  see  and  hear,  in  the  spell  of  a touch  ! And  yet  I have  seen 
him  take  her  hand ; I have  heard  him  whisper  words  that  brought  the 
colour  into  her  cheek.  Sorcery  ! Witchcraft ! Shall  I suffer  myself 
again  to  be  enthralled  ? ” 

But  the  chances  of  the  game  now  threw  Frank  Ford  and  Alice  May 
within  the  centre  compartment  together.  Thus  coupled,  thus  linked 
with  her,  hand-in-hand,  all  his  stern  resolutions,  his  anger  against  her, 
were  once  more  mollified  and  put  to  flight ; it  was  impossible  to  harbour 
resentment  against  one  whose  hand  trembled  within  his  own,  and  whose 
soft  blue  eyes  seemed  seeking  pardon  of  his  ; as  he  looked  upon  her,  he 
felt  more  and  more  how  impossible  it  was  ; and  soon,  his  only  thought 
was  how  to  prolong  the  time  of  their  remaining  together  within  this 
boundary,  which  now  he  found  to  be  anything  but  1 hell’  to  him.  As 
this  state  of  feeling  somehow  communicated  itself  to  Alice,  it  naturally 
befel  that  they  relaxed  in  their  attempts  to  capture  the  rest  of  the 
couples,  and  cause  an  exchange  of  places ; so  that  it  as  naturally  ensued, 
that  the  game  languished  ; and,  shortly  after,  it  was  broken  up,  and  the 
players  dispersed,  in  groups,  to  the  orchard ; where,  beneath  the  cherry- 
trees,  a supper  was  spread,  while  still  so  early  that  it  might  be  eaten  by 
the  glow  of  the  western  sun. 

The  guests  were  all  seated  round  the  oaken  tables ; merriment,  good- 
cheer,  laughter,  abounded  ; good-humoured  sallies  flew  round,  drawing 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


453 


parallels  of  beauty  between  the  maidens’  lips  and  the  ripe  fruit  that 
hung  from  the  branches  overhead,  and  saucy  hints  of  the  sweet  taste  of 
each, — compliments  more  remarkable  for  truth,  perhaps,  than  for  origin- 
ality, but  which  had  their  merit  in  the  gaiety  and  sincerity  of  heart  with 
which  they  were  spoken.  The  young  people  flirted,  and  talked,  and 
smiled  ; the  old  folks  looked  on,  well  pleased  to  see  their  children  hap- 
py ; while  all  joined  in  doing  justice  to  the  good  things  provided  for 
their  entertainment,  after  the  hearty  country  fashion  of  “ merrie  Eng- 
land” in  the  olden  time. 

Suddenly,  Margaret  Gay’s  quick  eye  glanced  round  the  table,  and 
she  whispered  George  Page,  who  sat  beside  her : — “ I see  neither  Alice 
May,  nor  Frank  Ford.  My  life  on’t,  that  little  traitress  has  dropped 
the  mask,  thrown  up  her  part,  and  left  the  play  unplayed  out.” 

“ I shouldn’t  wonder  said  George  Page  with  his  quiet  smile.  Ci  I 
saw  Frank  Ford  lead  her  apart,  when  the  sport  broke  up  ; they  took 
the  path  towards  the  meadows ; and  if  Frank  Ford’s  the  man  I take  him 
for,  and  Alice  May  the  gentle  girl  I know  her  to  be,  why  then  he  has 
not  rested,  nor  she  stinted,  till  he  won  her  to  tell  him  the  secret  of  your 
play,  as  you  call  it ; which,  I take  it,  has  been  a tragedy  to  him.” 

“ Serve  him  right ! She’s  a silly  wench  if  she  let  him  off  so  easy,” 
said  Margaret ; “ after  so  wild  and  groundless  a jealousy  as  his.  He’ll 
plague  her  with  some  of  these  yellow  whims,  by-and-by,  if  she  take  not 
good  heed  ; mark  my  word.” 

“ She  will  take  good  heed ; Alice  is  as  discreet  as  she’s  gentle. 
Come,  come,  Meg  ; wish  her  not  to  be  harsher  with  her  lover  than  thou 
wert  with  thine,  when  he  besought  thee  to  speak  out.” 

“ He  deserved  that  she  should  still  have  carried  on  the  jest,  and  play- 
ed out  the  play,  for  his  behoof,  ere  she  came  to  the  last  speech ;”  persist- 
ed Meg,  smiling ; “best  not  hurry  on  the  fifth  act.” 

“ Nor  wise  to  keep  it  too  long  in  delay.  Remember  his  impatience 
that  the  comedy  should  end  with  what  is  its  right  conclusion, — a happy 
marriage said  Page  ; “ and  talking  of  that,  reminds  me  to  ask  thee, 
Meg,  when  wilt  thou  fix  the  day  that  shall  make  thee  mine  % Frank 
will  be  for  having  his  wedding  on  the  same  day  as  ours  ; and  in  pity  to 


454 


MEG  AND  ALICE; 


his  jealous  qualms, — which  will  hardly  be  quite  set  at  rest  till  he  makes 
sure  of  Alice, — we  must  appoint  am  early  one.” 

“ Only  in  pity  to  him  ? Is  there  no  one  else  thought  of,  in  this 
haste  to  fix  the  day  ? ” asked  she  archly. 

“No,  I protest  to  thee,  Meg;  I could  be  content  to  wait  patiently 
ten,  twelve,  nay,  as  many  as  twenty-four  hours,  ere  we  went  to  church. 
I would  not  hurry  thee,  sweet  Meg,  only  let  it  be  ere  the  week  come  to 
an  end,  an  thou  lov’st  me.” 

“ Seeing  that  this  is  Friday  evening,  master  Page,  I thank  thee  for 
thy  latitude ; ” she  said,  laughing ; “ but  see ! here  come  Frank  and 
Alice.  Alack,  for  my  play  ! It  is  played  out  indeed  ! Who  can  fail  Ao 
read  { impending  matrimony  ’ writ  in  both  those  tell-tale  faces  ? ” 

George  Page  hastened  towards  them,  to  perform  his  duty  of  host  in 
securing  Frank  and  his  blushing  companion  a seat  at  the  supper-table ; 
and  as  he  did  so,  he  contrived  to  convey  by  his  expressive  look  and  his 
hearty  shake  of  the  hand,  his  congratulation  on  the  right  understanding 
to  which  all  of  them  had  happily  come. 

On  the  following  day,  Frank  Ford  asked  Alice  of  her  father,  in  form  ; 
and  while  he  stepped  into  farmer  May’s  house  to  do  this,  he  left  his 
mistress  in  company  with  George  Page  and  Margaret  Gay,  having  all 
four  been  walking  together.  Of  course  it  was  by  the  merest  chance  that 
the  young  people  had  met ; but  as  they  had  fallen  in  with  each  other,  it 
was  agreed  between  them  that  they  would  saunter  on  for  an  hour  or  two 
through  the  pleasant  glades  of  Windsor  park,  so  soon  as  Frank  should 
have  performed  his  errand  of  hope,  and  rejoin  them. 

During  his  absence,  Alice  May  had  walked  on  a few  paces,  in  rustic 
goodnatured  fashion,  leaving  the  lovers  to  follow  by  themselves ; but 
George  Page  overtook  her,  and  passing  her  arm  within  his  own,  while  on 
his  other  arm  he  had  Margaret  Gay,  he  declared  that  love  should  not  make 
him  so  unsociable  as  to  let  Alice  May  walk  on  by  herself ; and  that  he 
insisted  on  escorting  them  both,  until  her  rightful  companion  returned. 

Now  it  happened,  that  as  the  young  farmer  was  proceeding  thus,  with 
a merry  maiden  under  each  arm,  all  three  gaily  laughing  and  chatting, 
reckoning  over  the  many  pleasant  neighbourly  hours  they  had  all  spent 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OP  WINDSOR. 


4 55 


together,  and  looking  forward  happily  to  the  many  more  they  still  hoped 
to  spend  thus,  living  near  each  other,  who  should  come  by  that  way,  but 
mistress  Poll  Quickly,  with  a large  basket  on  her  arm,  coming  over  the 
fields  from  Frogmore,  where  she  had  been  to  fetch  some  cream  and  but- 
ter that  was  wanted. 

She  spied  Page  from  a distance  ; and  also  saw  clearly  enough  who 
were  his  companions,  and  how  familiarly  they  were  all  linked  arm-in-arm  ; 
and  she  said  to  herself : — <“  Lord,  Lord,  if  that  wicked  young  fellow  be 
not  in  sober  verity,  no  less  in  love  than  he  said  he  was,  with  the  merry 
maids,  two  at  a time  ! If  he  be  not  about  to  delude  them  both,  I’m  no 
better  than  I should  be,  which  I am,  I praise  Heaven  for  it ! To  see 
the  wantonness  of  this  wicked  world  would  make  a body  pray  to  be  blind, 
in  Heaven’s  mercy  ! To  think  of  him ; and  to  think  of  them,  letting 
him  bring  ’em  into  such  a canaries,  is  what  I should  never  have  thought 
of  two  such  seeming  innocents.  But  merry  and  honest  too,  is  rarer  than 
black  swans,  it’s  my  belief.” 

As  she  approached  the  group,  however,  some  of  her  virtuous  horror 
oozed  out ; giving  place  to  that  easy  tolerance,  which  her  desire  to  be 
on  popular  terms  with  everybody,  made  second  nature  to  her. 

(L  A goodly  company,  and  a fitting,  for  such  a fine  warm  morning  as 
this  ; ” she  said,  as  she  came  up  with  the  party,  dropping  a curtsey,  and 
smirking  at  them.  “ It’s  well  to  be  a heathen  Turk,  and  a Christian 
farmer  all  in  one,  when  a handsome  young  Englishman  would  fain  look 
well  in  more  than  one  fair  pair  of  eyes ; and  as  long  as  virtuous  maids 
are  willing  to  be  friendly  and  peaceable,  and  rather  agree  in  their  liking, 
than  fall  out  and  pull  caps  because  one  man  happens  to  please  ’em  both, 
why,  such  amical  doings  is  a blessing,  I say  ; and  long  may  you  all  go 
on  kindly  together,  I pray.” 

“ I’m  afraid  I shan’t  be  able  to  persuade  both  my  Sultanas  to  marry 
me,  Turk  as  I may  be  ; ” said  Page,  laughing ; “ but  I hope  I may  say, 
I think  they  both  like  me  well ; and  I swear  that  shall  content  me.” 

“ That  we  do,  mistress  Polly ; we  both  love  George  Page  dearly  and 
heartily,  and  he  loves  us  ; dost  thou  not,  master  Page  ? ” said  they. 

u Bight  truly,  on  the  faith  of  an  honest  man  and  a farmer — an  Eng* 
lishman  and  no  Turk  ! ” he  replied. 


456 


MEG  AND  ALICE  I 


“Well,  restye  merry,  good  gentlefolks;”  said  Poll  Quickly,  bob- 
bing a parting  curtsey,  and  feeling  rather  baffled  by  their  unconstrained 
manner  and  laughing  words.  “ But  if  black  swans  are  not  white  angels 
to  those  two  merry  maids,  (Heaven  forgive  me  for  saying  so  !)”  she  con- 
tinued to  herself,  as  she  pursued  her  way,  “ why  then  I’m  no  judge  of 
birds  and  angels,  or  maids  either — shy  birds  and  sly  birds  as  mistress 
Alice  May  and  mistress  Margaret  Gray  both  are.” 

Presently  she  met  Frank  Ford ; who  having  prospered  in  his  suit, 
and  obtained  farmer  May’s  joyful  consent  to  wed  his  daughter,  was  com- 
ing along  with  an  alert  step,  and  a beamingly  happy  face. 

“ Poor  young  man  ! ” she  thought,  as  he  approached,  and  she  observed 
his  well-pleased  air,  “ he  wouldn’t  look  so  cheerily,  an’  he  knew  what 
games  his  sweetheart’s  going  on,  when  his  back  is  turned,  to  his  studies. 
Worthy  scholar  ! he  little  thinks  his  learning  won’t  teach  him  to  fathom 
the  wickedness  of  young  girls,  nor  his  books  serve  him  to  see  through 
their  double-faced  masks.  I’ve  a month’s  mind  to  help  him  to  an  ink- 
ling. Give  ye  good-morrow,  master  Ford  ; ” she  said  aloud,  as  she  came 
up  to  him ; “ you’ll  be  for  taking  a 8 ’ roll  through  the  park,  this  fine 
morning,  I warrant  me ; and  if  you  take  the  glade  leaving  the  castle  to 
your  left,  I shouldn’t  wonder  but  you’d  stumble  on  a sight  that’ll  make 
your  eyes  open  as  wide  as  from  now  till  Martlemas.” 

“ Indeed,  good  mistress  Polly ; and  what  may  that  be  ? It  were  a 
sight  to  be  looked  for,  in  good  earnest.” 

“ Troth,  master  Ford,  it’s  a sight  for  a good  man  to  see  ; a young  girl 
hanging  on  one  man’s  arm,  when  if  she’s  an  honest  girl  she  should  be  in 
another  man’s  arms.  And  what  should  you  say,  master  Ford,  if  I was 
to  tell  ye,  that  such  a young  girl’s  name  is  Gay ; and  that  the  young 
man’s  name  with  the  arm  she  is  leaning  on,  is  no  other  than  Page  ; and 
that  he’s  not  even  content  with  that,  but  he  must  be  having  two  of  ’em 
at  once,  like  a dog  in  the  manger  as  he  is — a merry  maid  tucked  under 
each  arm  ; Lord  forgive  us  ! What  say  you  to  that  7 ” 

“ I think  it’s  very  hard  he  should  get  both  the  merry  maids  of  Wind- 
sor to  his  share ; ” said  Ford,  laughing.  “ I’ll  after  him,  and  see  if  he 
won’t  give  me  up  one  of  them.” 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


457 


u Alas,  master  Ford  ! Would  you  take  up  with  his  leavings  ? iJ  asked 
Poll. 

“ I mean  not  that ; ” answered  Ford.  u I shall  take  one  of  the  merry 
maids  from  him,  and  leave  him  the  other ; and  then,  thou  know’st,  he 
will  have  my  leavings.” 

u Ah,  your  worship’s  a ’cute  master  of  art,  and  which  is  more,  a bach- 
elor ; and  which  is  more,  a collegiate ; no  fox  is  more  knowing,  I praise 
Heaven  for  it ! You’ll  outwit  them  yet,  I shouldn’t  wonder.  To  see 
what  learning  and  logic  is,  good  heart ! W ell,  Heaven  speed  ye  in 
shaming  the  wicked,  righting  the  wronged,  and  giving  all  of  ’em  their 
due,  I pray  ! ” 

u Amen  ; ” said  Ford,  with  a laughing  nod  of  farewell  to  her  as  he 
ran  on  to  overtake  his  friends. 

It  was  not  long,  ere  the  two  pair  of  lovers  agreed  upon  the  day 
which  was  to  make  them  joyful  husbands  and  wives.  And  when  the 
day  arrived, — the  friends  and  relations  on  all  sides  assembling  and  form- 
ing a goodly  procession ; the  two  brides  attired  alike,  with  knots  of 
memorial  rosemary  fastened  to  their  sleeves,  as  was  the  wont ; and  a 
rich  bride-cup  of  silvergilt,  in  which  was  a branch  of  rosemary  gilded 
brightly,  and  hung  about  with  ribbons,  borne  before  them  ; — it  was  al- 
lowed on  all  hands  that  two  more  comely  bridegrooms,  than  young  master 
Ford  and  young  master  Page,  two  fairer  brides  than  young  mistress  May 
and  young  mistress  Gray,  or  two  handsomer  happier  couples  than  these 
young  people,  had  not  been  wedded  in  the  old  church  for  many  a day. 

Thus,  the  two  merry  maids  became  the  merry  wives  of  Windsor  ; for 
with  their  new  dignity  came  no  shadow  to  cloud  their  spirits  ; their 
housewifely  cares  sat  easily  on  two  girls  so  thriftily  and  notably  bred ; 
their  matronly  duties  were  but  light  demands  upon  the  time  of  those  so 
skilled  in  domesticity, — so  home-loving,  so  home-adorning  in  their  simple 
affections  and  accomplishments  ; and  they  who  had  been  known  among 
the  neighbours  for  the  blithest  lasses,  were  still  noted  for  being  the 
gayest-hearted  women  in  all  that  fair  Berkshire  town.  Years  flew  by, 
and  scarce  brought  any  change  in  their  good  looks — none  at  all,  in  their 
good-humour  and  merry-hearted  cheer. 


458 


MEG  AND  ALICE  J 


Alice  was  hardly  more  smiling  as  young  mistress  May,  than  she  was 
as  mistress  Ford ; Margaret  was  not  a whit  less  ready  for  a playful  jest, 
or  a laughing  frolic,  when  she  had  been  for  many  a summer  mistress 
Page,  than  when  she  was  young  mistress  Gay. 

Somewhat  more  crumby,  plump,  and  buxom,  perhaps,  they  had  be- 
come in  their  fair  proportions ; the  white  shoulders  were  more  ample  ; 
the  arms  rounder ; the  cheeks  had  a fuller  outline,  and,  mayhap,  a less 
delicate  tint  of  rose  ; while  neither  of  their  waists  were  quite  so  remark- 
able for  slenderness  as  they  had  been ; yet  still,  when  there  was  a dance 
in  the  old  barn,  or  a game  on  the  green-sward,  Meg  and  Alice  were  still 
as  alert  as  ever  in  the  share  they  took  in  such  sports,  for  they  found 
their  husbands  were  to  the  full  as  well-pleased  to  see  them  there  as  for- 
merly, and  never  found  that  their  figures  had  become  more  portly,  or 
their  steps  less  active. 

Frank  Ford  had  been,  in  the  course  of  time,  left  so  well  off  by  his 
father,  that  he  was  able  to  maintain  his  wife  as  a gentlewoman,  without 
any  necessity  for  his  following  his  father’s  profession  of  lawyer ; while 
George  Page,  when  his  father  died,  determined  from  choice,  to  follow 
his  vocation,  as  farmer,  bailiff,  and  land-steward  to  sir  Marmaduke  Ducan- 
drake.  The  office  brought  him  in  a handsome  revenue,  and  its  duties 
were  well  suited  to  his  tastes  and  abilities.  Both  the  friends  lived  in 
ease  and  comfort,  and  were  reputed  men  of  wealth  and  substance  in 
their  native  town ; while  their  wives  had  households,  and  attires,  after 
their  own  wish,  with  money  and  time  entirely  at  command,  to  spend  as 
they  pleased. 

The  wedlock  of  Ford  and  Alice  had  been  unblessed  by  offspring ; 
though  it  seemed  to  be  scarcely  a matter  of  regret  to  them. 

Mistress  Page  had,  a year  after  marriage,  brought  her  husband  a 
little  girl ; who  became  the  pet  and  darling  of  the  whole  family.  As  to 
her  grandfather,  farmer  Gay,  he  would  have  scarce  had  baby  Anne  a 
moment  out  of  his  sight,  so  proud  and  so  fond  was  he  of  the  young 
prattler. 

It  is  frequently  seen  in  a large  family,  that  the  first  grandchild  born 
is  received  as  a sort  of  fairy-gift,  a precious  God-send,  a kind  of  wonder 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


459 


and  miracle.  It  seems  a strange  creature  among  so  many  grown-up  per- 
sons : and  the  elders,  having  been  so  long  accustomed  to  see  their  own 
children  men  and  women,  regard  this  new  little  being  as  almost  a curi- 
osity, at  first ; and  welcome  it  as  a renewal  of  their  first  paternal  joys 
ever  after. 

For  a long  while  baby  Anne  enjoyed  this  pre-eminence ; for  some 
time  she  was  the  only  grandchild, — the  sole  pet  and  plaything  of  the 
family ; the  darling,  the  idol,  the  dear  little  creature  who  was  in  danger 
of  being  spoiled  by  all  the  household,  as  the  single  representative  of 
childhood  among  all  those  grown  people. 

But  she  was  a good  little  soul,  a sweet  simple  child  ; one  of  those 
pleasant  natures,  that  it  is  well-nigh  impossible  to  render  less  pleasant, 
even  by  the  most  inveterate  spoiling  that  a tribe  of  doting  relations  can 
inflict ; one  of  those  single  hearts  and  pure  dispositions  that  remains 
uncorrupted  by  injudicious  yielding  ; taking  no  advantage,  learning  no 
tyranny,  but  seeming  to  flourish  and  ripen  into  a thousand  good  quali- 
ties beneath  the  sunshine  of  indulgence.  Nothing  could  prove  this  bet- 
ter than  the  birth  of  her  little  brother  William.  After  eight  or  nine 
years  of  undisputed  sovereignty,  another  child  appeared,  to  share  her 
rule  over  the  hearts  of  the  fond  parents  and  grand-parents. 

But  far  from  seeming  to  regard  this  little  one  as  an  intruder,  or  in- 
fringer upon  her  rights  of  affection,  no  one  welcomed  the  baby  boy  with 
greater  delight  than  Anne, — now  no  longer  baby  Anne,  but  sister  Anne. 
She  nursed  him.  she  hugged  him,  she  lugged  him  about,  and  would  fain 
have  had  him  never  out  of  her  arms,  in  spite  of  the  hint  which  mistress 
Quickly  once  gave  hei  mother,  to  the  effect  that  16  if  little  mistress  Anne 
was  allowed  to  bear  about  young  master  in  that  sort,  from  pillar  to  post, 
alas,  no  ram’s  horn,  nor  no  curly-tailed  pig  would  be  crookeder  than  that 
child’s  shoulder,  good  heart ! ” 

So  far  from  grudging  him  the  notice,  of  which  she  herself  had 
hitherto  enjoyed  exclusive  and  undisputed  monopoly,  little  mistress 
Anne  would  take  him  from  one  to  another  to  be  admired ; she  would 
present  him  to  each  of  the  family  in  turn,  that  his  pretty  staring  eyes, 
his  button  of  a mouth,  or  his  funny  little  nose  might  be  duly  inspected ; 


460 


MEG  AND  ALICE  .* 


and  when  the  laudation  of  the  whole  household, — from  father  and  mother, 
and  grandad  and  granny,  down  to  each  of  the  women-servants,  and  even 
the  farm-labourers  when  they  came  in  from  the  fields  to  their  noontide 
meal, — had  all  been  exhausted,  then  would  she  trudge  forth,  and  totter 
from  neighbour  to  neighbour,  with  him  in  her  arms,  that  they  might 
have  the  advantage  of  beholding  this  treasure  of  a baby-boy,  and  do  all 
homage  to  the  wonder  and  delight  of  her  having  a little  brother. 

She  learned  to  dress  and  undress  him ; to  lift  him  in  and  out  of  his 
wicker  cradle,  to  dandle,  to  rock,  and  to  toss  him.  No  one  could  get 
Willy  to  sleep  so  well  as  Anne ; no  one  could  still  him  so  well  when  he 
roared ; no  one  could  amuse  him  so  well  when  he  was  awake ; no  one 
could  hush  and  soothe  him  so  well  on  his  way  to  that  infant  bourne, 
‘by-bye;’  or  watch  and  protect  him  from  disturbance  so  effectually  when 
he  was  once  there,  thoroughly  off,  taking  a sound  nap.  She  made  him 
as  smart  as  a doll,  as  neat  as  a kying-in  pincushion,  and  as  clean  as  a 
new-scoured  dairy-pan  ; so  that  he  looked  to  be  always  in  holiday-trim ; 
as  if  each  day  he  was  ready  for  that  first  church-going,  and  first  party — 
his  christening. 

She  was  deep-learned  in  his  first  winks  of  intelligence,  his  first  blinks 
of  notice,  his  knowing  stares  at  the  candle,  his  unflinching  gaze  at  the 
sun.  She  knew  the  very  first  moment  of  his  having  uttered  his  first 
coo,  smiled  his  first  smile  ; and  when  some  daring  sceptic  ventured  to 
hint  at  this  being  very  like  a gape,  and  another  suggested  that  it  might 
be  a writhe  of  the  lip  occasioned  by  some  slight  convulsion,  or  other  in- 
ternal discomposure,  Anne  stoutly  declared  it  was  a smile,  and  nothing 
but  a smile,  and  that  it  was  in  all  probability  the  result  of  Willy’s  at 
that  instant  beholding  an  angel. 

She  it  was  who  declared  the  precise  time  of  his  first  distinguishing 
his  mother’s  face  from  that  of  any  one  else  ; she  it  was  who  proclaimed 
his  beginning  to  notice  father,  and  then  herself,  and  then  various  other 
members  of  the  family,  and  then  a numerous  circle  of  acquaintance  to 
whom  she  introduced  him,  when  she  found  he  thus  enjoyed  the  sweets  of 
society.  She  caught  first  sound  of  his  earliest  articulated  Ta ! Pa  ! 
and  Ma  ! And  when  she  had,  with  infinite  pains,  taught  him  to  utter 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


461 


other  more  recondite  sounds,  and  reach  a high  perfection  in  still  further 
elaborated  accents,  she  had  always  a choice  stock  of  his  smart  sayings, 
his  saucy  answers,  his  pert  witticisms,  on  hand,  to  repeat  for  the  delight 
and  entertainment  of  his  friends. 

There  was  only  one  person  who  could  never  be  brought  to  see  as 
much  perfection  in  her  little  brother  William  as  Anne  could  wish ; and 
this  was  her  grandfather  Gay.  The  old  man  persisted  in  looking  upon 
the  boy  as  a sort  of  rival  to  his  first  darling,  and  he  was  often  heard  to 
mutter,  “ he  should  like  to  know  whatever  that  brat  came  for  ; not  but 
what  the  child  was  well  enough,  a fine  healthy  baby  and  all  that ; but 
still,  what  should  he  come  for,  and  put  his  darling’s  nose  out  of  joint? 
People  were  all  so  fond  of  the  young  shaver — and  all  for  why  % He 
was  a boy — an  heir,  forsooth.  But  he’d  see,  that  he  would,  whether  his 
own  darling  Anne  couldn’t  be  made  an  heiress  of,  as  well  as  the  best 
boy  that  ever  drew  breath  !”  And  when  the  old  farmer  died,  it  was 
found  that' he  had  made  good  his  words,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  by  leaving 
Anne  Page  inheritrix  of  all  his  hoardings,  to  the  amount  of  full  seven 
hundred  pounds. 

When  it  became  high  time  that  William  should  be  removed  from  her 
superintendence,  and  placed  under  more  erudite  tuition  than  a sister, — 
however  devoted, — could  supply,  Anne  still  took  charge  of  him  as  far 
as  possible.  He  was  sent  to  school  with  sir  Hugh  Evans, — now  become 
village  schoolmaster  in  place  of  Peter  Scriven  deceased ; and  every 
morning  might  Anne  Page  be  seen,  leading  her  little  brother  by  the 
hand,  carrying  his  satchel  for  him,  chatting,  and  laughing,  and  beguiling 
the  way,  as  he  leaped  and  jumped  at  her  side,  looking  forward  to  the 
time  when  she  should  come,  in  like  manner,  to  fetch  him  back  again,  af- 
ter the  school-hours  were  over. 

Both  the  children  liked  parson  Hugh  ; all  the  children  in  Windsor 
liked  him  ; he  was  good-humoured,  fond  of  his  pupils,  and  more  peppery 
in  manner  than  really  strict  or  severe.  He  loved  better  to  give  them  a 
holiday  at  some  good-natured  friend’s  asking,  than  to  scourge  or  even 
scold  them  for  non-attendance,  or  non-attention  at  their  lessons.  He 
would  affect  to  cross-examine  them  very  closely,  upon  occasion,  and 


462 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ! 


show  them  off  before  their  parents,  but  he  would  put  leading  questions, 
and  assist  them  to  easy  answers.  He  was  not  too  grave  to  join  in  their 
sports,  or  too  wise  to  find  entertainment  from  their  diversions.  He 
wouJd  give  a helping  hand  at  cricket,  or  a helping  kick  at  foot-ball.  He 
would  doff  his  learned  gown,  and, — stripped  to  his  doublet  and  hose, — 
skime  about  the  .field  as  nimbly  as  the  youngest  of  them,  at  prison-bars  ; 
or  fly  over  the  backs  of  his  scholars,  taking  his  turn  at  leap-frog.  He 
was  irritable,  but  kindly ; wrathful  when  roused,  but  easily  placable ; 
furious  in  words,  quiet  in  deeds  ; fond  of  a sly  practical  joke,  but  utter- 
ly devoid  of  malice. 

He  was  proud  of  his  acquaintance  with  Robert  Shallow  Esq.,  justice 
of  the  peace  in  the  county  of  Gloucestershire.  Could  not  forbear  boast- 
ing to  the  boys  of  his  having  been  to  the  same  school  with  that  worship- 
ful personage ; used  to  tell  them  of  certain  boyish  pranks  he  and  the 
squire  had  played  together  (tho’  there  was  a great  difference  in  their 
ages)  in  old  schodl-days  ; held  up  justice  Shallow’s  young  cousin,  master 
Slender,  as  a model  for  all  young  gentlemen  ; told  them  his  friend  the 
justice  had  promised  to  pay  him  a visit  at  his  poor  school-house  at  Wind- 
sor some  day  or  other,  should  any  occasion  bring  him  up  to  court ; and 
that  if  ever  such  an  auspicious  event  should  occur,  he  would  grant  them 
a holiday  on  the  strength  of  it.  At  which,  all  the  boys  would  set  up  a 
roaring  huzza,  and  cry,  “ long  live  parson  Hugh  and  his  noble  friend  jus- 
tice Shallow  !” 

The  friendly  relations  between  this  last-named  worshipful  gentleman, 
and  master  George  Page,  had  also  been  kept. up  during  the  years  that 
had  elapsed  since  his  first  visit  to  the  squire’s  place  in  Gloucestershire. 
Master  Robert  Shallow  did  not  forget  that  it  was  Page  who  had  brought 
him  the  sum  of  money,  which,  after  the  first  enthusiasm  of  obliging  a 
court  knight  with  its  loan,  he  had  had  misgivings  he  might  never  see 
again  ; and  therefore,  beside  the  personal  liking  the  young  man  himself 
had  inspired,  there  was  always  associated  with  him  in  justice  Shallow’s 
mind  (if  such  a thing  may  be  included  among  his  attributes)  the  idea 
(still  admitting  such  possible  existence)  of  an  agreeable,  and  almost  un- 
hoped-for, piece  of  good-fortune. 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


463 


Presents  of  game,  a fine  buck  in  season,  or  a goodly  clieese  of  Glou- 
cester, would  often  travel  up  by  wain  from  the  knight’s  seat,  for  master 
Page’s  acceptance  ; while  courtesies  of  acknowledgment  in  the  shape  of 
some  new  recipe  or  hint  in  farriery,  some  dog  of  superior  breed,  either 
for  coursing  or  wood-cock  shooting,  a thorough-bred  beagle,  a good  point- 
er, or  handsome  fallow  greyhound,  would  be  sent  in  return  from  Windsor 
to  the  squire,  or  to  young  master  Slender. 

On  the  squire’s  side,  there  were  the  reasons  above-stated,  for  the 
friendly  feeling  he  preserved  towards  master  Page  ; and  on  the  other,  the 
good  yeoman — who  was,  like  many  men  of  wealth  and  substance,  fond  of 
opportunities  for  increasing  it — sometimes  found  himself  reflecting  that 
the  justice’s  cousin,  master  Slender,  was  now  a young  man  grown,  that 
he  inherited  a good  estate  from  his  father,  that  he  would  come  into  a 
round  sum  of  money  at  his  mother’s  death  ; and  then  he  would  specu- 
late upon  the  eligibility  of  such  a spouse,  and  the  possibility  there  was  of 
securing  such  a match  for  his  daughter,  by  bringing  about  a marriage 
between  her  and  master  Abraham  Slender. 

Meantime,  Anne  Page,  unconscious  that  any  such  scheme  occupied 
her  father’s  thought  respecting  her,  still  found  her  own  chief  happiness 
in  the  lo  and  care  of  her  young  brother  William. 

On  one  occasion,  as  she  was  bringing  him  back  from  school,  he  asked 
her  to  go  with  him  into  one  of  the  meadows  that  lay  a little  out  of  the 
way  leading  between  the  school-house  and  their  home,  to  look  at  a bird’s 
nest  he  had  spied  in  the  hedge  the  day  before.  Anne  complied ; at  the 
same  time  saying  she  hoped  William  did  not  want  to  take  the  nest. 

“ No,  no,  only  to  peep  at  it,  and  to  show  it  to  you,  Nan ; it  lies  so 
lightly  yet  so  snug,  just  among  some  brambles,  that  stretch  across  the’ 
dry  ditch  ; nobody  would  think  of  looking  for  it  there,  though  the  place 
is  so  open  to  the  passers-by, — the  path  runs  close  to  it.” 

Coming  along  this  path,  the  brother  and  sister  met  mistress  Quickly, 
who  was  rather  a favourite  with  the  young  girl ; for  she  could  not  help 
being  amused  with  all  the  odd  scraps  of  gossip  and  village  news,  which 
were  sure  to  form  the  subject  of  talk. 

u And  how  is  young  mistress  Anne  ? And  pretty  master,  too  ? Strong 


464 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ; 


and  hearty,  I trust ; and  like  the  rose,  I see.  And,  I pray,  how  does 
good  mistress  Page,  and  honest  master  Page — your  worthy  father  and 
mother?” 

“ All  as  well  as  heart  could  wish,  I thank  you,  mistress  Quickly 
answered  Anne. 

Nay,  mistress  Anne,  no  thanks  to  me;  though  if  their  well-being 
stood  with  me,  it’s  a sorry  account  of  sickness,  or  sorrow  either,  they 
should  know  by  my  good  will ; — but  let  that  pass.” 

William  having  eagerly  pointed  out  the  nest,  in  its  sly  nook,  to  his 
sister,  now  began  climbing  up  a young  ash-tree  that  stood  near  ; to  cut, 
from  among  its  branches,  a switch  that  took  his  fancy ; and  while  he  was 
doing  this,  Anne  Page  and  mistress  Quickly  proceeded  with  their  chat. 

“ And  how  are  you  going  on  yourself,  mistress  Quickly  ?”  asked  Anne  ? 
“ I think  you  told  me  you  had  left  the  Star  ?” 

u Ay,  ay,  that  I did,  or  it  would  ha’  left  me  replied  she.  u When 
that  rampaging,  rollicking,  roystering  chap  came  down  to  set  up, — came 
over  from  Staines,  and  opened  this  fine  new  hostelry,  the  Garter, — why 
it  stood  to  reason  that  the  shine  was  clear  gone  from  the  old  Star.  It 
twinkled  and  twinkled,  and  faded  and  faded,  and  grew  dimmer  and  dim- 
mer, till  it  was  clear  to  me  that  it  would  soon  pop  out.  It  was  snuffed 
out,  puffed  out,  and  clapped  an  extinguisher  upon,  by  the  blazing  doings 
of  that  rantipole  host  of  the  Garter,  yonder said  mistress  Quickly, 
pointing  with  her  chin  to  the  quarter  of  the  town  where  the  rival  Inn 
had  started  up. 

“ And  so  you  quitted  the  Star?”  said  Anne. 

“ That  I did  in  truth replied  mistress  Quickly ; the  Star  was  a 
sphere  that  never  suited  me,  for  a bar-maid’s  life  is  not  a life  for  an 
honest  maid ; too  much  hard  work,  and  too  much  idleness,  in  all  the  idle 
things  that  are  said,  and  looked,  and  chucked  under  the  chin  of  a maid 
at  an  Inn,  which  you’d  find,  Anne,  if  you  wasn’t  a rich  farmer’s  daugh- 
ter that  never  need  come  to  such  a gradation  to  gain  your  honest 
bread.” 

“ I thought  I heard  from  some  one,  that  you  were  trying  to  get  a 
place  at  the  new  hostelry  ? ” said  Anne. 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


465 


u And  so  I did returned  mistress  Quickly.  “ For  tho’  a bar-maid’s 
place  isn’t  a pillow,  nor  yet  a bolster,  let  alone  a station  for  a civil,  mo- 
dest, virtuous  young  woman,  which  I detest  I am ; still  when  maids  are 
going  a begging,  places  of  some  kind,  or  no  kind,  or  a bad  kind,  are  bet- 
ter than  no  places  at  all,  and  must  be  taken,  by  a poor  maid  that  has  no 
place  else  to  put  her  head.” 

u Then  gaffer  and  gammer  Quickly  are  both  dead?”  said  Anne. 

“ Ay,  that  they  are,  blessings  on  their  hearts  ;”  said  mistress  Quickly. 
“ I’m  alone  in  the  world  now  ; not  a ’varsal  soul  left  of  us,  save  my  sis- 
ter Nell,  and  her  husband,  Bob  Quickly,  that  live  up  in  London,  at  the 
Boar’s  Head,  and  he’s  lately  dead.” 

u Bo  you  not  sometimes  wish  to  see  your  sister  ? you  might  perhaps 
get  a place  in  London  near  her  said  Anne. 

u What  should  I do,  burdening  a poor  widow  in  Eastcheap  ? ” said 
mistress  Quickly.  “ I’ll  rather  slave  my  fingers  to  the  bone,  and  live  on 
• the  flesh  of  ’em,  than  go  to  be  a burden  on  her  who  has  nothing  to  give 
or  to  spare.” 

“ Well  said,  mistress  Quickly;”  said  Anne. 

“ Nay,  I’ve  as  much  proper  spirit  as  my  neighbours,  I hope said 
mistress  Quickly  ; u and  wouldn’t  think  of  going  to  trouble  one  who 
hasn’t  a doit  but  what  she  wants  for  herself.”  , 

u And  can’t  you  find  a place  to  suit  you  here  ?”  said  Anne.  u There 
must  be  plenty  of  good  places  in  Windsor  for  such  an  excellent  house- 
keeper as  you  would  make,  mistress  Quickly.  I will  speak  to  my  good 
mother  about  it. 

“ Blessings  on  your  heart,  and  on  hers  too,  for  your  kind  intent ; ” 
replied  she.  “ But  I’m  not  without  my  hope  of  getting  a place  that 
would  suit  me  to  a tittle,  which  I have  in  my  eye.  There’s  a parlous 
clever  French  doctor  come  down  here,  in  attendance  on  the  court,  they 
say ; one  master  doctor  Caius  is  his  name  ; and  I’in  told  that  he  wants 
a good  creature  that’ll  keep  his  house  in  order,  and  do  all  for  him ; for 
he  has  no  wife  to  take  care  of  him,  and  make  his  house  what  it  should 
be ; and  I’m  to  go  there  to-morrow  and  offer  myself.  The  service  will 
be  hard— a great  charge, — no  other  woman-servant  but  myself  kept ; but 
I shall  try  for  the  place,  and  do  my  duty  by  it,  when  got.” 


466 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ; 


u I’ve  no  doubt  you  will said  Anne.  “ And  pray  how  is  mistress 
Ford  ? Mother  and  I haven’t  seen  her  a whole  age — it  must  be  full 
four  days.  Have  you  seen  her  since  ? ” 

u Troth,  mistress  Anne,  that  I have.  And  its  in  pecks  o’  troubles  I 
found  her,  and  what  is  more,  bushels  of  canaries,  about  parting  with 
that  gill-flirt  maid  of  hers,  who  she  thought  was  a treasury,  but  who  I 
said  all  along  was  a trollop  and  a trumpery.  Alas,  the  sweet  woman 
was  much  deceived  in  the  baggage  ! Oceans  of  ribbons,  and  hogsheads 
of  finery  and  frippery  would  never  have  contented  the  vanity  of  that 
wench  ! But  she’s  been  sent  tramping  I’ll  warrant  you.  This  was.  my 
doing.  What,  said  I,  will  you  waste  both  wage  and  food  upon  a good- 
for- nought,  and  a ne’er-do-well,  and  a gill-flirt,  that  spends  all  she  has 
upon  ribbons,  and  fly-by-skies,  and  gimcracks  ? But  even  this  mightn’t 
have  opened  mistress  Ford’s  eyes, — who’s  too  sweet  a soul  by  half,  for 
the  wicked  ones  of  this  world,  who  are  on  the  watch  to  cheat  the  over- 
kind and  over-soft,  like  mistress  Ford,  blessing  on  her  heart  for  it ! — if 
it  hadn’t  been  that  the  wench  made  away  with  a ring  of  master  Ford’s, 
and  a gilt-set  pocket-glass  of  her  mistress’s;  and  then  at  last  they  be- 
lieved me,  and  sent  her  off  at  a minute’s  warning,  bag  and  baggage.” 

“ Then  mistress  Ford  is  without  a waiting-maid,  now  ?”  asked  Anne. 
u I helped  the  sweet  woman  to  another,  I give  Heaven  praise said 
mistress  Quickly.  *•  I named  to  her  that  Tib  Prat  wants  a place,  and 
would  suit  hers ; Tib,  the  niece  of  mistress  Prat  of  Brentford,  you 
know  ; you’ve  heard  of  her— some  folks  call  her  the  fat  woman  of  Brent- 
ford— and  some  evil-minded  people  go  so  far  as  to  call  her  the  witch  of 
Brentford — but  they’re  no  Christians,  no,  nor  no  conjurers  either,  that 
would  fix  the  name  of  witch — however  fat  she  may  be — upon  mother 
Prat,  poor  old  soul.” 

Her  brother  William,  having  now  cut  his  switch,  and  also  chosen  a 
good  stout  ash  stick,  that  he  thought  he  would  clip  and  polish  for  his 
father’s  use,  Anne  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  bidding  mistress  Quickly 
farewell,  said  she  would  call  over  at  mistress  Ford’s  that  afternoon  with 
her  mother,  and  learn  how  their  friend  was  getting  through  her  domestic 
troubles. 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


467 


“ Ay  do  so,  of  all  loves  ; it’ll  be  a charity said  mistress  Quickly ; 
tl  the  sweet  woman  has  been  yearning  her  heart  to  see  your  good  mother, 
I know.” 

u Nan,”  said  William  to  his  sister,  as  they  pursued  their  way  home 
together,  u shouldn’t  you  like  to  go  down  into  Gloucestershire,  and  see 
that  capital  old  deer-park,  and  that  famous  dog-kennel,  and  all  the  plea- 
sant jolly  things  that  that  old  justice  has  got  down  there  at  his  place  % 
I should  ! I wish  the  justice  would  ask  me,  and  that  father  would  let 
me  go  for  a visit.  I should  like  to  stay  there  a month.  It  would  be 
so  jolly.  And  I should  like  to  know  master  Slender.  Father  has  told 
me  about  him  ; he  seems  to  be  a funny  kind  of  a chap.” 

u He  seems  to  be  little  better  than  a fool,  from  what  I can  hear  of 
him ;”  said  Anne,  laughing  ; 66  and  mother  thinks  so,  too  ; I can  see ; 
for  all  father,  with  his  kind  heart,  tries  to  make  the  best  of  it,  in  what 
he  tells  us  about  him.” 

ce  0,  I shouldn’t  mind  that  ! I shouldn’t  mind  his  being  a fool,  a 
bit,  Nan,  He’d  make  all  the  more  fun — and  I love  fun  ! And  then, 
some  folks  say,  fools  are  mostly  good-natured,  and  perhaps  he’d  be  good- 
natured  to  me,  and  let  me  play  with  his  dogs,  and  ride  his  horses,  and 
iend  me  his  rod  ; I dare  say  he  has  one,  and  I do  so  want  to  fish.” 
u I think  that’s  a mistake,  Will,  about  fools  being  good-natured 
said  his  sister.  “ I have  a notion  that  fools  are  obstinate,  opinionated, 
and  apt  to  be  sulky,  and  no  man  who’s  either  of  these  can  be  good-na- 
tured.” 

cc  Is  master  Slender  any  of  the  three  ?”  asked  William. 
u I know  nothing  of  him.  I never  saw  him,  thou  know’st.  But  I’ve 
a fancy  I shouldn’t  like  him.  If  he's  a fool,  I’m  sure  I shouldn’t ; and 
I have  a shrewd  notion  he’s  that.” 

“ Still  I should  like  to  go  and  see  him  and  his  uncle,  at  their  nice  old 
place  said  William,  as  they  reached  their  own  door. 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on  in  Windsor,  matters  were  tak- 
ing place  in  Gloucestershire,  which,  so  far  as  William’s  seeing  the  per- 
sons in  question,  were  likely  to  bring  about  his  wish. 

Justice  Shallow  had  been  made  somewhat  uneasy  by  having  his  at- 


468 


MEGr  AND  ALICE  ! 


tention  aroused  to  symptoms  of  a preference  springing  up  between  his 
cousin,  Abraham  Slender,  and  a certain  Alice  Shortcake,  a baker’s 
daughter,  who  lived  in  the  nearest  village  to  Shallow  Park.  The  old 
gentleman  would  never  have  had  the  perspicacity  to  make  this  discovery 
for  himself,  but  the  lynx  eyes  of  a mother  had  acquainted  mistress  Slen- 
der with  some  particulars  which  she  thought  betokened  the  fact,  and  she 
forthwith  consulted  her  cousin  Shallow  upon  what  had  best  be  done  to 
save  her  son,  and  the  darling  of  them  both,  from  the  ignominy  of  such  a 
match. 

She  had  come  home  in  a state  of  vast  perturbation,  one  evening,  from 
a large  party  that  took  place  in  the  neighbourhood  ; she  was  full  of  in- 
dignant grumblings,  irate  murmurs,  and  wrathful  objurgations,  against 
“ mixed  society,”  “ shameful  carelessness  in  associating  people  of  conse- 
quence with  nobody  knows  who,”  and  such-like  outpourings  against  the 
promiscuous  nature  of  the  assemblage,  which  she  and  her  son  had  been 
invited  to  join.  It  is  more  than  probable  that  the  worthy  lady’s  growls 
would  have  been  suffered  to  pass  unnoticed,  according  to  custom,  had 
not  justice  Shallow’s  curiosity  prompted  him  to  enquire  a little  into  their 
cause,  in  this  instance.  For  a fit  of  the  gout  had  prevented  his  accom- 
panying his  cousins  to  the  party  ; and  he  felt  the  usual  anxiety  of  a pro- 
vincial gentleman  to  hear  the  news,  all  how  and  about  ” his  neigh 
hours 

The  affair  had  been  a festivity,  to  celebrate  the  season  of  Hallowmas. 
The  master  of  the  house  was  a country  gentleman,  more  hearty  than 
nice  in  his  notions  of  hospitality.  He  thought  the  chief  merit  of  an 
assemblage  of  the  kind  consisted  in  its  comprising  all  the  prettiest  faces, 
and  all  the  gayest  sparks,  and  all  the  best  dancers,  and  all  the  pleasant- 
est partners,  and  all  the  merriest  hearts,  and  all  the  jolliest  topers  that 
could  be  collected  for  miles  round,  to  fill  his  old  hall,  and  to  enjoy  his 
good  cheer,  and  each  other’s  society ; and  he  accordingly  asked  every 
one  of  the  hansomest  girls,  and  comeliest  young  men,  gentle  or  simple, 
that  he  knew.  He  was  not  particular  about  birth  or  station  ; provided 
they  were  good-looking,  good-humoured,  it  was  all  he  asked — and  he 
forthwith  asked  them. 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSuR. 


469 


After  dancing  came  all  kinds  of  sports,  and  charmed  spells  proper  to 
All-hallow  Eve.  There  was  the  nut-burning ; the  stealing  out  of  the 
kiln  all  alone  in  the  dark,  to  wind  the  clue  of  blue  yarn,  that  the  mys- 
terious hand  might  seize  the  thread,  and  the  mysterious  voice  might  de- 
clare the  Christian  name  of  the  future  spouse  ; the  solitary  winnowing  in 
the  barn,  that  the  apparition  of  the  destined  lover  might  appear ; with 
other  magical  rites  and  observances. 

It  may  readily  be  believed  that  master  Abraham  Slender  offered  a 
tempting  mark  for  the  tricks  and  jests  of  many  a merry  young  damsel 
among  the  company.  But  there  was  one  especially,  who  made  it  a point 
to  single  him  out  as  a butt  for  her  waggery  in  all  the  schemes  for  hoax- 
ing and  bantering  which  she  conceived,  and  the  occasion  warranted. 

This  girl  was  named  Alice  Shortcake,  who,  though  no  higher  in  rank 
than  a baker’s  daughter,  had  yet  more  than  sufficient  guarantee  for  her 
admission  to  this  party  in  her  more  than  ordinary  share  of  good  looks. 
She  was  a bouncing,  bright-eyed,  cherry-cheeked  damsel  of  about  fifteen  ; 
she  had  tip-top  spirits,  no  inconvenient  misgivings  about  delicacy,  or 
good  taste,  or  refinement,  or  fastidiousness  ; she  cared  not  a jot  for  any 
one  of  them,  and  it  is  highly  probable  that  she  had  never  so  much  as 
heard  of  them. 

Her  eye  in  an  instant  fastened  on  master  Slender  as  excellent  game  ; 
and  she  resolved  never  to  leave  him,  until  she  had  played  off  the  whole 
artillery  of  her  All-hallow  Eve  jokes,  upon  his  devoted  person.  He  was 
her  target,  her  quintain, — destined  to  receive  the  whole  shock  of  her  wit- 
buffets,  and  practical-jest-blows. 

She  was  abetted  in  all  her  plots  by  a lusty  young  miller,  her  swain  and 
sweetheart,  who  relished  as  heartily  as  herself  these  devices  against  the 
young  squire ; resolving  that  when  Alice  Shortcake  had  done  with  him, 
he  would  have  a turn  at  him  himself,  and  see  if  his  pockets  as  well  as  his 
person,  mightn’t  be  made  to  yield  good  sport.  There  was  a bowling- 
green,  and  a skittle-ground,  and  a racquet-court,  and  a shovel-board- 
room, all  attached  to  this  house,  in  either  of  which,  master  Slender  might 
be  turned  to  account,  by  some  means  or  other. 

They  managed  so  well  between  them,  that  before  the  night’s  revels 


470 


MEG-  AND  ALICE  I 


were  over,  master  Slender  had  felt  his  breast  pierced  thro’  and  thro’  by 
Alice  Shortcake’s  bright  black  eyes  (though  mingled  with  a sort  of  dread 
of  them,  too),  and  his  purse  well-nigh  emptied  by  the  skilful  handling  of 
Yead  Miller. 

There  is  not  space  to  enumerate  half  the  tricks  the  young  girl  played 
upon  him.  One  penalty  he  evaded  by  very  simplicity.  When  she  pro- 
posed to  him  to  perform  the  charm  of  dipping  his  shirt-sleeve  in  the 
running  brook,  and  watching  it  dry  by  the  fire,  alone,  that  he  might  be- 
hold the  image  of  his  future  wife  come  and  turn  the  garment,  he  said  : — 
“ 0 but  I might  take  cold,  you  know  ! And  tho’  I’m  not  such  a weakly 
creature  as  you  might  think,  to  care  about  the  risk ; yet,  to  stand  shiv- 
ering without  a nether  garment  of  such  consequence,  and  for  so  long,  is 
a hazard  my  mother  wouldn’t  let  me  run.  Beside,  who  knows  whether 
the  sleeve  might  be  quite  dry  when  I put  it  on  again, — and  so  another 
chance  of  rheum  and  cold-catching  ! Truly,  for  my  own  part,  I care  not 
to  risk  it,  I thank  ye.” 

Another  penalty,  which  would  have  secured  himself  a prize,  he  also 
missed,  from  the  same  cause. 

Alice  Shortcake  had  engaged  him  in  the  performance  of  a spell,  which 
was  to  be  conducted  in  the  following  manner.  He  was  to  take  a candle, 
go  into  a room  by  himself,  where  there  was  a looking-glass  ready  set ; 
in  this  glass  he  was  enjoined  to  keep  his  eye  steadily  fixed,  to  comb  his 
hair,  and  eat  apple,  all  the  while,  until  he  should  see  the  face  of  his  des- 
tined bride  peep  over  his  shoulder. 

“ But  what  if  I come  to  the  end  of  the  apple,  and  no  face  appears  ?” 
said  he.  “ An  apple  is  soon  eaten  ; and  then  what  am  I to  do  ?” 

“You’ll  find  a supply;”  said  Alice  Shortcake,  pushing  him  into  the 
darkened  room ; where,  by  the  light  of  a single  glimmering  rushlight 
shaking  in  his  hand,  he  found  a mirror  hung  with  black,  close  beside 
which,  stood  a dozen  or  more  of  apples,  and  a comb. 

“ There’s  enough  of  ’em,  sure  enough  !”  he  muttered,  setting  down 
the  candle.  “ I hope  the  bride’s  face  will  show  itself  soon  ; I shall  never 
get  through  all  those,  else.” 

He  stood  opposite  the  mirror,  looked  at  himself  therein,  as  steadily 


THE  MiiKRY  MAIDS  OP  WINDSOR. 


471 


as  lie  could,  took  the  comb  in  one  hand,  drew  it  through  his  long  flaxen 
locks,  lifted  an  apple  in  the  other,  and,  digging  his  front  teeth  into  the 
peel,  took  a resolute  bite. 

“ Pah  !”  exclaimed  he,  just  about  to  sputter  forth  the  mouthful,  “It’s 
a*  crab,  I verily  believe  ! Sour  as  verjuice  !”  But,  bethinking  him  that 
he  might  break  the  charm,  he  swallowed ; with  a wry  face  took  another 
bite,  scrunched  that,  and  swallowed  ; and  so  went  he  on,  combing,  and 
scrunching,  and  swallowing,  and  keeping  his  eyes  faithfully  fixed  on  the 
glass,  with  not  one  instant’s  loss  of  gravity  at  the  wry  faces,  or  yellow 
hanks  of  tow  hair,  combed  through  with  stolid  perseverance,  which  were 
reflected  before  him. 

Not  so  his  tormenter.  She  was  not  proof  against  this  combination 
of  delicious  circumstances.  She  had  crept  on  tiptoe  behind  him,  to  watch 
the  working  of  her  spell ; but  when  she  beheld  its  actual  fulfilment, — so 
far  beyond  the  most  sanguine  expectations  she  had  allowed  herself  to 
form,  even  from  her  victim’s  promising  appearance, — the  sight  was  too 
much  for  her  powers  of  risible  controul,  and  she  was  fain  to  scamper  out 
of  the  room  and  throw  herself  into  the  young  miller’s  arms,  to  have  her 
laugh  out  in  the  passage,  where  he  was  waiting  for  her. 

“ He’s  at  it  still she  whispered,  between  the  burst  of  giggles  that 
she  vainly  endeavoured  to  suppress,  for  fear  they  should  reach  the  dark- 
ened room ; “ for  the  love  of  laughter,  go  and  have  a peep  ! But  restrain 
thy  guffaw,  lest  he  overhear,  and  cease  crunching.  I’d  have  him  eat  till 
he  burst  ! And,  oh,  look  at  his  goggle  grey  eyes  peering  through  his 
lank  hair,  that  he  keeps  combing  and  combing  right  over  them.  What 
a dear  ninny  ’tis  ! I could  have  smacked  his  face,  and  pelted  it  with  the 
apples,  for  very  delight  at  him,  had  I not  hoped  to  see  him  munch  ’em 
all  up.  Go,  go  ! But,  softly  ; I pr’ythee  !” 

But  just  as  Yead  Miller  stole  to  the  door,  he  met  master  Slender 
stealing  out,  muttering  : — “ I shall  as  soon  venture  at  it,  as  any  man,  for 
so  rare  a sight ; but  cholic’s  a fearful  thing — it  nips  shrewdly — and  I’ll 
eat  no  more.  Hullo  ! What’s  that?  Oh,  it’s  you,  Yead  Miller.” 

“ Ay,  it’s  only  me,  master  Slender  said  the  fellow,  as  gravely  as  he 
could  ; “ but  what  else  have  you  seen  ? Anything  ? any  one  ? What  sort 


472 


MEG  AND  ALICE  ! 


of  face  was  it,  peeped  over  jour  shoulder  ? Let’s  know,  what  like  mis- 
tress Slender  is  to  be.” 

u Truly,  I saw  no  face,  not  I replied  he.  I saw  nothing.  I heard 
something,  indeed ; but ” 

“ What,  what  1 What  was  it  like  ?” 

“ ’Mass,  it  was  most  like  a girl  smothering  a laugh  ; and  my  mind 
misgave  me,  that  it  was  no  spirit,  but  a true  fleshly  woman ; and  i’faith 
I’d  ha’  proved  it,  by  turning  round  and  catching  hold  of  her ; only,  it 
isn’t  seemly  to  lay  hands  on  a woman  against  her  will,  and  before  she’s 
aware  ; and  so,  I let  her  be,  forsooth.  But  I half  repent  me  ; for  if  it 
was  that  merry  black-eyed  thing  that  I am  in  two  minds  it  was,  I’d  ha’ 
a squeeze  or  a kiss  for  my  pains  ; but  then  mayhap,  she’d  have  slapped 
or  pinched,  for  women  are  despiteful  things  when  they’re  vexed.” 

“ Ay,  truly  are  they,  master  Slender,  and  vexed  enough  she’d  ha’  been, 
had  your  worship  revenged  yourself  that  way  said  the  miller.  “ Best 
as  ’tis.  And  now  let  you  and  me  away  to  the  shovel-board  room.  I’ve 
some  right  good  smooth  new  shillings,  fit  for  play,  that  your  worship  shall 
have  for  the  nonce,  an’  you  will.” 

“ Nay,  I’ll  be  well-pleased  to  buy  them  of  thee,  Yead  Miller;”  said 
master  Slender.  “ I love  the  game  well;  and  shall  be  glad  to  make  the 
bright  broad  pieces  mine  own.” 

These  several  attacks  upon  her  son,  had  not  escaped  the  notice  of 
mistress  Slender ; and  they  were  what  caused  her  to  be  so  highly  incens- 
ed against  the  indiscriminate  assembly,  where  a miller  and  a baker’s 
daughter  had  had  an  opportunity  of  playing  off  their  tricks  upon  so  ex- 
alted a personage  as  the  young  squire,  master  Abraham  Slender.  She 
had  not  failed  to  perceive  also  the  impression  created  by  Alice  Short- 
cake’s black  eyes  ; and  this  it  was  which  she  confided  to  her  cousin  Shal- 
low, beseeching  him  to  aid  in  averting  the  frightful  consequences  to 
which  it  might  lead. 

The  worthy  justice  promised ; but  just  at  that  time,  it  happened, 
that  his  attention  was  diverted  from  the  subject  of  his  young  cousin’s 
possible  enthralment,  by  the  unexpected  advent  of  one  of  his  old  town 
acquaintances,  sir  John  Flastaff,  who,  with  three  of  his  retainers,  came 
down  to  Gloucestershire  on  a long-promised  visit. 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


473 


This  visit  proved  anything  but  agreeable  to  the  host.  Matters  were 
carried  with  so  reckless  a hand  by  the  knight  and  his  riotous  followers, 
— they  committed  so  many  extravagances,  bred  so  much  disorder, — and 
behaved  with  so  little  regard  to  decency,  that  instead  of  the  amicable 
terms  on  which  the  two  gentlemen  had  hitherto  maintained  their  inti- 
macy, they  parted,  this  time,  with  threats  of  seeking  redress  on  the  one 
side,  contemptuous  defiance  on  the  other. 

Master  Robert  Shallow  brooded  on  these  wrongs,  and  meditated 
means  of  obtaining  the  vengeance  he  sought.  He  thought  he  would  go 
up  to  Windsor,  where  the  court  at  present  was,  and  state  his  wrongs  in 
the  proper  quarter;  he  bethought  him,  that  thus  he  might  enjoy  the 
pleasure  he  had  often  promised  himself,  of  seeing  master  Page  again, 
and  at  the  same  time  fulfil  an  engagement  of  long-standing  with  sir 
Hugh  Evans,  his  old  school-fellow,  who  looked  forward  with  pride  to 
having  him  under  his  roof.  He  had  just  made  up  his  mind  (again  the 
word  slips  in  unadvisedly,  speaking  of  the  worthy  gentleman)  on  the 
many  eligible  features  of  the  plan,  when  one  more  circumstance  was 
added,  which  made  him  decide  upon  the  Windsor  expedition  as  the 
wisest  possible  device,  to  obtain  his  own  wishes,  and  to  remove  his  cousin 
at  once  from  a dangerous  vicinity. 

It  happened  that  justice  Shallow,  wnile  making  the  above  reflections, 
was  pacing  up  and  down  a sunny  open  space  in  his  deer-park  near  to  the 
high  road,  when  he  heard  voices ; one  of  which  was  a woman’s,  and  the 
other  he  recognized  as  his  cousin  Slender’s. 

“Nay,  but  master  Slender,”  he  heard  the  damsel’s  voice  say,  “I’m 
sure  your  worship  won’t  refuse  me  so  very  a trifle  as  a puppy.” 

“ I know  not  about  trifles,  mistress  Alice ;”  replied  the  voice  of 
Abraham  Slender ; “ but  I know  the  dog’s  as  good  a dog  as  any  in 
Gloucestershire — be  the  other  the  best  hound  that  runs — and  I can’t 
part  with  him  to  be  given  away  to  Yead  Miller,  which,  I know,  is  what 
you’ll  do.” 

“ Not  I,  i’faith  replied  Alice  ; “ I want  him  for  a pet  for  myself ; 
and  you  won’t  refuse  me — me — eh,  master  Slender  ? ” And  the  tone  of 
voice  became  very  appealing.  “ I’m  sure  I couldn’t  refuse  you  a dog,  or 
anything  else  that  you  asked  of  me,  master  Slender.” 


474 


MEG-  AND  ALICE  ! 


u But  you  have  no  dog — and  I ask  no  dog  of  you,  mistress  Alice  ; n 
said  Slender. 

u But  is  there  nothing  else  you  would  care  to  have  of  me,  master 
Slender  ? I would  fain  show  you  I can  refuse  you  nothing,  if  I may 
coax  you  to  part  with  the  dog,  for  I’ve  taken  a fancy  to  him.” 

u He’s  a gift  of  master  Page’s,  and  I daren’t  give  him  away,  lest  my 
cousin  Shallow  should  chide  said  Slender ; “ and  as  for  aught  else  I 
could  wish  of  you,  beside  a dog — there  might  be  something  I could  fancy, 
but  that  I overheard  Yead  Miller  once  say,  if  any  man  ever  took  such 
a thing  of  you,  he’d  take  him  a blow  of  his  cudgel  should  last  him  his 
life.” 

“ And  what  was  it  no  man  was  to  get  of  me  without  Yead  Miller’s 
good  leave,  I trow  ? ” 

“ If  I tell  you,  will  you  give  me  your  word  not  to  be  angered  ? 
You’ll  be  curst,  mayhap,  if  I say  the  word ; many  women  can’t  abide  to 
hear  it  spoken.” 

“ What  is  it,  good  master  Slender  ? ” said  the  voice  in  so  coquettish 
a strain  as  did  not  forebode  any  violent  offence,  should  he  muster  cour- 
age for  the  utterance. 

“ Marry,  no  less  than — a — a — kiss  faltered  he. 

A little  shrill  scream  followed,  which  seemed  to  scare  master  Slen- 
der, and  which  he  hastened  to  appease,  by  exclaiming  : — “ Nay,  it  was 
his  word,  not  mine,  and  I’ll  sooner  be  hanged  than  make  it  my  deed,  if 
you’ll  only  cease  screaming,  and  tell  me  you’re  not  angered  ! ” 

u Pshaw ! ” muttered  the  voice  of  the  damsel,  as  she  seemed  to  fling 
from  him,  and  quit  the  spot. 

Presently,  the  long  legs  of  master  Slender  appeared  above  the  top 
rail  of  the  stile  which  divided  the  park  from  the  road  ; and  in  another 
moment,  himself  came  into  the  open  space  where  his  cousin  Shallow 
was,  who  said,  as  he  approached : — “ What  woman  was  that  you  parted 
with  just  now,  coz  ? ” 

“ Woman  ? I know  of  no  woman  said  master  Slender,  with  more 
than  his  ordinary  sheepishness  of  aspect. 

66  Come,  come,  that  shall  not  serve,  cousin.  Come  cousin,  come 
cousin,  confess,  confess.” 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OP  WINDSOR. 


475 


C£  I know  not  what  to  confess  ; ” said  master  Slender. 
u Confess  that  you  care  more  for  that  wench,  than  you’d  have  me 
know  of,  coz.  Confess  that ; I know  who  the  woman  is.  Confess  that 
you  like  her  too  well.  Confess,  coz;  confess.” 

11 1 know  not  what  ’tis  to  like  any  woman.  I know  not  what  ’tis  so 
much  as  to  look  at  a woman  in  the  way  of  liking.” 

“ Do  you  look  at  them  in  hate,  coz  ? ” 

u Nay,  I know  not  that;  hut  I know  not  what  ’tis  to  look  upon  them 
in  any  liking.  ” 

“ I doubt  that,  coz ; I doubt  that.  This  wench  seemed  quite  at 
home  with  you,  methought.  ” 

u Oh,  we’ve  met  before.  I don’t  mind  the  young  woman.  I— I — 
care  not  that  she  should  not  come  near  me ; but  I never  seek  her,  not  I. 
If  she  come  after  me,  so  ; if  she  have  a fancy  for  me,  why  so,  too ; I 
can’t  hish  her  away  from  me  like  a dog,  can  I ? Or  bid  her  not  follow 
me,  can  I ? You  would  not  have  me  rough  to  her,  would  you,  uncle? 
It’s  an  ill  thing  to  be  rough  to  a woman,  uncle,  I can’t  abide  to  be 
rough  to  a woman.” 

“ Well,  you  needn’t  be  rough,  coz:  but  you  needn’t  encourage  her, 
neither.  What  I would  have  you  do,  is  not  to  encourage  the  girl,  coz. 
Do  you  mark  me  ? Do  you  conceive  me,  coz  ?” 

“ Yery  well,  uncle.” 

“ Why,  well,  then  ; let  her  not  fancy  that  you  encourage  her.  For 
it  would  not  sort  well  with  the  honor  of  an  old  family  like  ours,  coz, — ■ 
that  may  quarter,  and  write  himself  esquire,  coz, — for  master  Abraham 
Slender  to  wed  with  Alice  Shortcake,  the  baker’s  daughter.” 

“ You  know  her  then,  uncle  ?”  faltered  master  Slender. 

“ Marry,  that  I do  ; and  I will  pardon  all,  if  thou  wilt  pleasure  me, 
coz,  by  going  with  me  to  Windsor ; where  sir  Hugh  Evans,  a worthy 
friend  of  mine,  shall  show  thee,  as  a good  churchman  should,  the  sin  and 
wickedness  of  marrying  beneath  your  degree,  and  the  weakness  of  tri- 
fling with  a girl’s  hopes.  It  is  very  wanton  dealing,  both.” 

“ But  ere  I go  with  you  to  Windsor,  uncle,  I would  fain  get  back  a 
book  of  mine,  that  I lent  to  Alice  Shortcake.  It’s  a choice  garland  of 
riddles  that  I took  with  me  to  make  merry  with,  at  the  All-hallowmas 


476 


MEG  AND  ALICE  : 


feast ; she  wouldn’t  be  gainsaid  but  that  T should  let  her  have  it  for 
awhile.  We  so  laughed  over  it  together,  that  it  passed.” 

“Well,  coz,  thy  man  Simple  shall  go  over,  and  ask  her  for  it  in  thy 
name  said  justice  Shallow. 

“ I doubt  if  she’ll  give  it  to  any  one  beside  myself muttered  Slen- 
der ; “ she  sets  store  by  the  volume,  I know  ; and  in  truth,  it’s  a dainty 
book  of  riddles.  It’s  well-nigh  as  full  of  sweet  conceits,  as  my  book  of 
songs  and  sonnets,  with  its  pretty  fal-lal-las,  and  hey-nonnys,  merry  tol- 
de-rols,  and  witty  rhyme-burdens.  I care  not  to  be  without  it,  on  any 
occasion  of  gravity  and  moment,  like  a journey ; or  of  pleasantry,  such 
as  meeting  with  new  acquaintances.  And  I dare  to  say  we  shall  pick 
them  up  as  rife  as  daisies,  at  Windsor.  I shall  have  need  of  my  book, 
uncle.” 

“And  thou  shalt  have  it,  coz.  Peter  Simple  shall  fetch  it  thee. 
Never  fear,  never  fear.  And  by’r  lady,  7tis  well  thought  on,  and  ’tis  well 
thought  on,  indeed ; thy  man  Simple  shall  attend  us  to  Windsor.  We 
shall  need  a trusty  varlet ; and  he  is  one,  he  is  one,” 

And  thus  the  journey  to  Windsor  was  settled. 

There,  meantime,  some  changes  had  taken  place.  Sir  Marmaduke 
Ducandrake  died.  As  he  had  never  married,  and  had  no  son,  the  estate 
fell  to  his  nephew,  of  the  same  name,  a young  man  about  town,  with  a 
slender  purse,  and  expensive  tastes,  to  whom  this  windfall  was  most  wel- 
come. He  came  down  to  take  possession,  bringing  in  his  train,  a number 
of  idle  young  companions,  whose  gay  manners  and  congenial  pursuits  had 
won  his  living.  Partly  from  conviction  that  it  could  not  be  in  honester 
hands,  partly  from  indisposition  to  any  exertion  of  body  or  mind,  which 
a change  must  have  produced,  the  young  gentleman  left  the  management 
of  his  affairs  still  with  master  Page  ; merely  renewing  his  engagement  as 
bailiff  to  the  estate. 

Among  the  young  gentlemen  who  had  accompanied  their  friend,  the 
new  sir  Marmaduke,  down  to  Windsor,  was  one  master  Fenton.  He 
was  gay,  but  not  heartless,  like  the  rest.  He  was  of  gentle  birth  ; had 
somewhat  wasted  his  patrimony  in  town  pleasures,  thinking  some  day  to 
repair  his  fortunes  by  a wealthy  marriage  ; but  possessed  a nature  capa- 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


477 


ble  of  being  touched,  and  rendered  generous,  by  excellence.  He  had 
met  Anne  Page  more  than  once  by  chance,  coming  with  her  little  bro- 
ther from  school ; had  been  struck  with  her  simple  beauty  ; had  formed 
acquaintance  with  her,  and  begun  to  flatter  himself  that  she  found  nearly 
as  much  pleasure  from  it  as  himself ; while  gradually  it  struck  young 
William,  that  his  sister  left  him  oftener  and  oftener  to  find  his  way  to 
and  from  school  by  himself,  unless  his  mother  would  be  his  companion, 
which  she  frequently  was. 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  when  Anne  Page  had  forgotten  that  it 
was  the  hour  for  fetching  her  brother,  because  she  happened  to  be  walk- 
ing with  master  Fenton  in  the  meadows,  whom  she  had  by  the  merest 
accident  met  there,  it  befel  that  mistress  Quickly  came  upon  them,  just 
as  the  young  people  parted. 

u A fair  day  to  fair  mistress  Anne,  is  a fair  wish,  and  h is  mine,  in 
good  sooth said  she ; “ I need  not  wish  her  fair  company,  for  that  she 
has  just  parted  with,  I see  added  she,  with  a sly  glance  in  the  direction 
of  master  Fenton’s  retreating  figure. 

“ Wilt  thou  step  with  me  to  our  house,  and  see  my  good  mother,  mis- 
tress Quickly?  She  will  be  glad  to  see  you,  I know.” 

u And  what  would  she  say  to  me,  I wonder,  did  she  know  whom  I 
have  just  seen  exhorting  her  daughter  in  her  walk?”  said  mistress 
Quickly ; u truly,  I think,  she’d  chide  if  she  knew  how  comely  a young 
gentleman  I find  him ; for  well  I know,  all  her  wish  is,  that  her  daughter 
should  find  my  master,  master  doctor  Caius,  the  comeliest  man  in  Wind- 
sor.” 

“ Good  lack  ! mistress  Quickly,  how  wouldst  thou  I should  find  any 
comeliness  in  such  a grimacing  ape  and  chattering  pie  as  that,  and 
withal  a splay-footed  duck,  for  his  gait  and  his  quackery  ?”  said  Anne 
Page. 

“ Nay,  pretty  mistress  Anne,  it  is  none  of  my  wish  that  thou  shouldst 
find  any  likelihood  in  the  Frenchman — for  all  he’s  a doctor,  and  more 
than  that,  my  master.  But  by  my  truly,  I think  your  good  mother 
would  have  you  like  him,  for  all  that.” 

“ I fear  me,  she  would ; but  in  truth  I cannot said  Anne. 


478 


MEG  AND  ALICE! 


u To  be  sure ; how  can  you,  with  young  master  Fenton  by  you,  to 
compare  ?”  said  mistress  Quickly ; “ but  yet  a mother’s  will  is  to  be 

thought  of,  and  I could  wish ” 

u Speak  not  of  it,  good  mistress  Quickly  ; but  I pr’ythee  tell  me, 
how  mistress  Ford  likes  her  new  maid  that  thou  commended’ st  to  her — 
or  any  news  thou  wilt,  i’faith.” 

u Well  then,  it’s  kindly  enough  mistress  Ford  has  taken  to  Tib  Prat ; 
but  it’s  master  Ford  that  cares  not  to  see  any  good  in  the  poor  maid, 
because,  forsooth,  she’s  niece  to  the  fat  woman  of  Brentford,  whom  he 
vows  is  a quean,  a cozening  fortune-teller,  and  I know  not  what.  What 
though  ? A woman  must  live,  I trow  ! She  must  earn  her  honest 
penny ! She  must  eat,  I hope  ! But  I hear  there’s  to  be  grand  doings 
on  your  birthday,  next  week,  mistress  Anne.  A goodly  feast  it’ll  be,  I 
warrant  me.  And  you’ll  be  sixteen  years  of  age,  I give  Heaven  praise.” 
“ And  thou  must  come  to  the  feast,  mistress  Quickly ; ” said  Anne 
Page  ; “ I must  have  thee  present.  Thou  wast  at  my  christening,  thou 
know’st,  and  if  all  be  true,  at  my  mother’s,  before  me.” 

“ Troth,  mistress  Anne,  that  I was ; and  a specious  christening, 
both  of  ’em,  I warrant  ye.  But  I must  be  going.  Out  upon  it ! My 
master  will  be  home  before  me  ; and  then  there’ll  be  no  end  to  frowns 
and  cracked  English,  and  hub-bub,  and  find-fault,  and  to-do ! ” said 
mistress  Quickly,  with  so  sudden  a recollection  of  her  domesticities,  as 
might  have  led  to  the  suspicion,  that  having  gained  her  object — an 
invitation  to  the  birthday  feast, — she  had  leisure  to  remember  her  duty. 

The  feast  was  no  less  magnificent,  than  had  been  mistress  Quickly’s 
anticipations  touching  its  probable  arrangements.  It  was  on  a scale 
suited  to  a wealthy  and  a fond  father’s  desire  to  honour  his  daughter’s 
birthday. 

Among  the  guests,  were  young  sir  Marmaduke,  and  the  troop  of 
friends  he  had  staying  with  him,  including  master  Fenton  ; there  were 
also  some  late  arrivals  in  the  town,  hangers-on  of  the  court,  gentlemen 
with  whom  Page  had  from  time  to  time  made  a slight  acquaintance.  Of 
these  latter,  happened  to  be  sir  John  FalstafF.  There  was  also  a numer- 
ous concourse  of  friends  and  neighbours.  Sir  Hugh  Evans  was  there, 


THE  MERRY  MAIDS  OF  WINDSOR. 


479 


who  mentioned  to  master  Page  a letter,  which  he  had  received  from  their 
friend  justice  Shallow,  announcing  his  intended  visit  to  Windsor,  and 
hinting  at  some  of  the  motives  which  induced  him  to  come. 

Master  Page  told  sir  Hugh  he  was  glad  of  this,  as  Falstaff  being  at 
present  there,  it  might  lead  to  a reconciliation,  he  hoped,  between  the 
justice  and  the  knight,  which  he  should  do  his  utmost  to  bring  about. 

Sir  Hugh  promised  “ to  use  his  best  discretions  and  benignities  ” to 
help  on  so  amicable  a project;  but  as  for  sir  John,  when  he  heard  who 
was  expected,  he  only  said : — 

“ What,  justice  Shallow  ? Poor  devil ! He’ll  hardly  care  to  meet 
me,  or  look  me  in  the  face  ; he  owes  me  money — some  thousand  pound 
strong  ; or  so.  But  he  needn’t  fear  me ; I’ll  not  press  the  debt.  He 
shall  have  time.  I’m  a moderate  man, — save  in  the  girth  ; exacting 
only  in  the  span  of  my  sword-belt.  My  belly  craves  amplitude  of 
doublet ; but  for  mine  own  desires,  they  are  limited — to  excess.” 

Master  Robert  Shallow  and  his  cousin  Slender  arrive  in  Windsor. 
They  are  welcomed  by  their  friends. 

Master  Page’s  scheme  for  a son-in-law  assumes  form  and  substance. 

Mistress  Page  has  still  her  own  project  for  Anne’s  future  husband  ; 
but  meanwhile  her  attention  is  distracted  from  the  subject  by  a strange 
proposal  on  her  own  score,  which  forces  from  her  the  exclamation : — 

“ What ! have  I '‘scaped  love-letters  in  the  holiday  time  of  my  beauty 
and  am  I now  a subject  for  them  ? Let  me  see.” 

She  has  no  sooner  re-read  the  paper,  than  to  her  comes  mistress 
Ford,  saying ; — 

“ Mistress  Page ! trust  me,  I was  going  to  your  house ! ” • 


The  comedy  of  the  twin  letters,  with  the  reception  and  retaliation 
they  meet,  is  played  out  in  “ double  excellency.”  The  writer  of  the 
story,  therefore,  has  now  only  to  refer  to  her  master’s  writing,  and  invoke 
his  aid  in  his  own  words,  saying : — “ Give  me  thy  hand,  celestial ; so.” 


PASSAGES  IN  THE  PLAYS 


Page  33, 
line  26. 


Page  49, 
line  4. 

Page  54, 
line  3. 

Page  66, 
line  30. 


Page  11, 
line  19. 

Page  1 9, 
line  10. 

Page  80, 
line  19. 


(As  Illustrative  Notes  to  the  First  Series ) 


IN  RELATION  TO 

FACTS,  NAMES,  AND  SENTIMENTS, 

WITH  WHICH  IT  WAS  REQUISITE  THE  TALE  SHOULD  ACCORD. 


TALE  I. 


“ Now,  Balthazar, 

As  I have  ever  found  thee  honest,  true, 

So  let  me  find  thee  still.” — Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  iil,  s.  4. 


“ An  unlesson’d  girl,  unschool’d,  unpractis’d 


Idem , Act  iii,  s.  2. 


“ It  is  your  music,  madam,  of  the  house.” 


Idem , Act  v.,  s.  1. 


“Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father’s  time,  a Venetian,  a 
scholar,  and  a soldier,  that  came  hither  in  company  of  the  Marquis  of 
Montferrat  ?” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  3. 

“ This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself, 

Are  yours,  my  lord ; I give  them  with  this  ring.” — Idem,  Act  iii.,  s.  2. 


“ There  is  a monastery  two  miles  off.” 


Idem,  Act  iii.,  s.  4. 


“ Who  comes  with  her  ? None  but  a holy  hermit,  and  her  maid.” 

litem,  Act  v.,  s.  1 


482 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 


Page  85, 
line  13. 

“ So  is  the  will  of  a living  daughter  curb’d  by  the  will  of  a dead 
father.” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  3. 

Page  87, 
line  20. 

“ Take  this  same  letter, 

And  use  thou  all  the  endeavour  of  a man, 

In  speed  to  Padua ; see  thou  render  this 

Into  my  cousin’s  hand,  doctor  Bellario.” — Idem , Act  in.,  s.  4. 

Page  123, 
line  16. 

TALE  II. 

“ Had  he  not  resembled 

My  father  as  he  slept,  I had  done’t.” — Macbeth,  Act  ii.,  s 2. 

Page  150, 
line  11. 

There  is  historical  authority  for  the  name  of  Macbeth’s  n:  other  being 
Doada ; that  of  his  wife,  Gruoch ; and  that  of  his  son,  Cormac. 

Page  164, 
line  20. 

“We  will  establish  our  estate  upon 
Our  eldest,  Malcolm;  whom  we  name  hereafter 
The  prince  of  Cumberland.” — Macbeth,  Act  i.,  s.  4. 

Page  169, 
line  26. 

“The  FTorweyan  lord,  surveying  vantage, 
With  furbish’d  arms  and  new  supplies  of  men, 
Began  a fresh  assault.” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  2. 

Page  169, 
line  28. 

“ The  merciless  Macdonwald 
(Worthy  to  be  a rebel ; for,  to  that, 

The  multiplying  villanies  of  nature 

Ho  swarm  upon  him)  from  the  western  isles 

Of  Kernes  and  Gallowglasses  is  supplied.” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  2. 

Page  170, 
line  7. 

“ What  beast  was  it  then, 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 

When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a man ; 

And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.  Nor  time , nor  place , 

Did  then  adhere , and  yet  you  would  make  them  both  : 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now 
Does  unmake  you.” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  7. 

Page  243, 
line  15. 

TALE  HI. 

King.  “ I would  I had  that  corporal  soundness  now, 

As  when  thy  father,  and  myself,  in  friendship 
First  tried  our  soldiership  ! He  did  look  far 
Into  the  service  of  the  time,  and  was 

Discipled  of  the  bravest.” — All’s  well  that  ends  well,  Act  i,  s.  2. 

ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 


483 


Page  246, 
line  16. 

Page  256, 
line  24. 

Page  257, 
line  25. 


Page  263, 
line  23. 


Page  270, 
line  14. 


Page  270, 
line  22. 


Page  270, 
last  line. 


Page  273, 
line  22. 


“ He  was  famous,  sir,  in  his  profession,  and  it  was  his  great  right  to 
be  so : Gerard  de  ISTarbonne.” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  1. 

The  countess  Rousillon  addresses  her  steward  as  “ Rinaldo.” 

Idem , Act  iii.,  s.  4 

“ His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls, 

* * * * heart  too  capable 

Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favour.” — Idem,  Act  i,  s.  1. 

“ You  remember 
The  daughter  of  this  lord  ? 

Bertram.  Admiringly,  my  liege : at  first 
I stuck  my  choice  upon  her , ere  my  heart 
Burst  make  too  bold  a herald  of  my  tongue : 

Where  the  impression  of  mine  eye  infixing, 

Contempt  his  scornful  perspective  did  lend  me, 

Which  warp’d  the  line  of  every  other  favour ; 

Scorn’d  a fair  colour,  or  express’d  it  stol’n  ; 

Extended  or  contracted  all  proportions, 

To  a most  hideous  object:  Thence  it  came, 

That  she,  whom  all  men  prais’d,  and  whom  myself, 

Since  I have  lost,  have  lov’d,  was  in  mine  eye, 

The  dust  that  did  offend  it. 

King.  Well  excused: 

* * * * * * 

Send  forth  your  amorous  token  for  fair  Maudlin .” — Idem , Act  v.,  s.  3. 

The  king,  quoting  his  friend,  the  late  count  Rousillon’s  opinion  of 
young  fellows  at  court,  says  he  called  them : — 

“ Younger  spirits  whose  apprehensive  senses 
All  but  new  things  disdain;  whose  judgments  are 
Mere  fathers  of  their  garments  ; whose  constancies 
Expire  before  their  fashions.”— Idem,  Act  i.,  s.  2. 

Bertram  disdainfully  and  ungenerously  says,  when  refusing  to  take 
the  poor  physician’s  daughter  for  his  wife : — 

“ She  had  her  breeding  at  my  father’s  charge.” — Idem , Act  ii.,  s.  3. 

“ Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  survey 
Of  richest  eyes ; whose  words  all  ears  took  captive ; 

Whose  dear  perfection,  hearts  that  scorn’d  to  serve, 

Humbly  call’d  mistress.” — Idem , Act  v.,  s.  3. 

Vide  the  scene  in  the  fourth  act,  where  the  soldiers  are  cross-ques- 
tioning the  blindfolded  Parolles.  They  are  there  called  by  their  names 
of  “ Dumain ;’  but  among  the  Dramatis  Personse,  they  are  styled 


484 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 


Page  275, 
line  12. 


Page  280, 
line  7. 


Page  282, 
line  16. 


Page  283. 
line  4. 


Page  283, 
line  15. 


Page  285, 
line  3. 


“ young  French  lords,  that  serve  with  Bertram  in  the  Florentine  wars 
and  in  the  scenes  where  they  appear,  the  prefix  to  their  several  speeches 
merely  stands  thus : — 1 Lord,  2 Lord.  Their  moral  excellence  is  best 
proved  in  the  conversation  they  hold  together  ‘respecting  Bertram’  at 
the  beginning  of  this  scene.  It  is  1 Lord,  the  elder  captain  Dumain, 
who  utters  the  celebrated  sentence “ The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a 
mingled  yarn,  good  and  ill  together : our  virtues  would  be  proud,  if  our 
faults  whipped  them  not ; and  our  crimes  would  despair,  if  they  were 
not  cherished  by  our  virtues.” 

Parolles,  on  his  return  to  Rousillon  after  his  disgrace,  addressing  the 
clown,  says : — “ Good  monsieur  Lavatch , give  my  lord  Lafeu  this  let- 
ter.”— All’s  well  that  ends  well,  Act  v.,  s.  2. 

Hel.  “ Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie, 

Which  we  ascribe  to  Heaven : the  fated  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope  ; only,  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  designs,  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 

* * * * * 

Impossible  be  strange  attempts,  to  those 
That  weigh  their  pains  in  sense : and  do  suppose 
What  hath  been  cannot  be.” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  3. 

“ My  father  left  me  some  prescriptions 
Of  rare  and  prov’d  effects,  such  as  his  reading, 

And  manifest  experience,  had  collected 

For  general  sovereignty  ; and  that  he  willed  me 

In  heed  fullest  reservation  to  bestow  them, 

As  notes,  whose  faculties  inclusive  were, 

More  than  they  were  in  note : amongst  the  rest, 

There  is  a remedy  approv’d,  set  down, 

To  cure  the  desperate  languishes  whereof 
The  king  is  render’d  lost.” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  3. 

King.  “ How  long  is’t,  count, 

Since  the  physician  at  your  father’s  died  ? 

He  was  much  fam’d. 

JBer.  Some  six  months  since,  my  lord.” — Idem,  Act  i.,  s.  2. 

Countess.  “ Her  father  bequeathed  her  to  me : and  she  herself,  with- 
out other  advantage,  may  lawfully  make  title  to  as  much  love  as  she 
finds : there  is  more  owing  her,  than  is  paid ; and  more  shall  be  paid 
her,  than  she’ll  demand.” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  3. 

Lafeu  asks  Parolles  (Act  ii.  s.  3)  “ Why  dost  thou  garter  up  thy  arms 
o’  this  fashion  ? dost  make  hose  of  thy  sleeves  ?”  And  in  the  fifth  scene 
of  the  fourth  act,  the  old  lord  tells  the  countess: — “hTo,  no,  no,  your  son 
was  misled  with  a snipt-taffata  fellow  there ; whose  villanous  saffron 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 


485 


Page  287, 
line  1. 

would  have  made  all  the  unbaked  and  doughy  youth  of  a nation  in  his 
colour  : your  daughter-in-law  had  been  alive  at  this  hour ; and  your  son 
here  at  home  more  advanced  by  the  king,  than  by  that  red-tailed  hum  • 
ble-bee  I speak  of.” 

The  clown  says  to  his  mistress,  the  countess,  “ If  I may  have  your 
ladyship’s  good  will  to  go  to  the  world”  [said  to  be  a cant  phrase, 
meaning,  ‘ to  be  married,’]  “ Isbel  the  woman  and  I will  do  as  we  may.” 
All’s  well  that  ends  well,  Act  i.,  s.  3. 

Page  289, 
line  25. 

“ This  is  your  devoted  friend,  sir,  the  manifold  linguist,  and  the  armi- 
potent  soldier.” — Idem , Act  iv.,  s.  3. 

Page  290, 
line  3. 

“ Of  six  preceding  ancestors,  that  gem 
Conferr’d  by  testament  to  the  sequent  issue, 

Hath  it  been  own’d,  and  worn.” — Idem,  Act  v.,  s.  3. 

Page  800, 
line  21. 

TALE  IT. 

“ So  much  duty  as  my  mother  show’d 
To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father.” — Othello,  Act  i.,  s.  8 

Page  320, 
line  17. 

“ She  is  of  so  free,  so  kind,  so  apt,  so  blessed  a disposition,  that  she 
holds  it  a vice  in  her  goodness,  not  to  do  more  than  she  is  requested.” 

Idem , Act  ii.,  s.  3, 

Page  338, 
line  21. 

“ My  mother  had  a maid  called, — Barbara : 

She  was  in  love,  and  he,  she  lov’d,  prov’d  mad, 
And  did  forsake  her  : she  had  a song  of — ‘ willow/ 
An  old  thing  ’twas,  but  it  express’d  her  fortune, 
And  she  died  singing  it.” — Idem , Act  iv.,  s.  3. 

Page  342, 
line  18. 

“ So  delicate  with  her  needle  I — An  admirable  musician ! 0,  she  will 
sing  the  savageness  out  of  a bear ! — Of  so  high  and  plenteous  wit  and 
invention  1” — Idem , Act  iv.,  s.  1. 

Page  344, 
line  5. 

“ A maiden  never  bold ; 
Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet,  that  her  motion 
Blush’d  at  herself.” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  3. 

Page  345, 
line  30. 

“ She  lov’d  me  for  the  dangers  I had  pass’d with  the  r Jb  of  the 
speech  preceding  in  context. — Idem,  Act  i.,  s.  3. 

Page  347, 
line  23. 

“ ’tis  most  easy 

The  inclining  Desdemona  to  subdue 
In  any  honest  suit;  she ’s  fram’d  as  fruitful 
As  the  free  elements.” — Idem,  Act  ii.,  s.  3. 

ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 


4dO 


Page  348,  “ That  song  to-night, 

line  32.  Will  not  go  from  my  mind  : I have  much  to  do, 

But  go  hang  my  head  all  at  one  side, 

And  sing  it,  like  poor  Barbara.” — Idem,  Act  iv.,  s.  3. 

Page  364,  “ This  Ludovico  is  a proper  man.  * * * X know  a lady  in  Ven- 

line  1 2.  ice,  who  would  have  walked  barefoot  to  Palestine,  for  a touch  of  his 
nether  lip.” — Idem , Act  iv.,  s.  3. 

Page  374,  This  idea  is  in  accordance  with  an  ingenious  suggestion  of  Mr.  Charles 

line  24.  Knight’s,  conveyed  in  a note  to  Act  third  of  ‘ Othello  ;’  Pictorial  Edition. 

Page  376,  “ These  things  to  hear,  # 

line  9.  Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline: 

But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence ; 

Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch, 

She’d  come  again,  and  with  a greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse :”  Othello,  Act  i.,  s.  3. 

Page  376,  Iago . “She  did  deceive  her  father,  marrying  you; 

line  29.  And  when  she  seem’d  to  shake,  and  fear  your  looks, 

She  lov’d  them  most. 

Oth.  And  so  she  did. — Idem,  Act  iii.,  s.  3. 

In  these  four  little  syllables,  is  involved  Desdemona’s  fate.  Had  her 
husband  been  able  to  refute  Iago’s  charge  of  the  tacit  deception  she 
once  practised,  all  would  have  been  well.  Thus  subtly,  but  impres- 
sively, does  Shakespeare  draw  the  moral  of  his  characters  and  their 
history. 

Page  377,  Sorrowfully  is  the  reader  referred, — in  confirmation, — to  the  colloquy 

line  13.  between  Othello  and  Desdemona  (Act  iii,,  s.  4);  where  he  demands  the 
handkerchief. 

Oth.  “ Lend  me  thy  handkerchief. 

Des.  Here,  my  lord. 

Oth . That  which  I gave  you. 

Des.  I have  it  not  about  me. 

******* 

Oth.  Is’t  lost  ? is’t  gone  ? Speak,  is  it  out  of  the  way? 

Des.  Heaven  bless  us ! 

Oth.  Say  you  ? 

Des.  It  is  not  lost ; but  what  an  if  it  were  ? 

Oth.  Ha  1 

Des.  I say  it  is  not  lost. 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 


487 


Page  379, 
line  2. 


Page  379, 
line  11. 


Page  380, 
line  4. 


Page  380, 
line  21. 


Page  380, 
line  27. 


Page  381, 
line  10. 


Oth . Fetch’t,  let  me  see  it. 

Des.  Why,  so  I can , sir,  but  I will  not  now." 

Not  five  minutes  before,  she  has  asked  Emilia  where  she  could  have 
lost  that  handkerchief,  adding : — “ I had  rather  have  lost  my  purse  full 
of  crusadoes.”  Profoundly  mournful  in  its  meting, — as  we  may  inter- 
pret it  (morally,  though  not  dramatically), — is  her  husband’s  subsequent 
exclamation: — 

“ Had  she  been  true , 

If  Heaven  would  make  me  such  another  world 
Of  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite, 

I’d  not  have  sold  her  for  it.” 


What ! Michael  Cassio, 

That  came  a wooing  with  you  ; and  many  a time, 

When  I have  spoke  of  you  dispraisingly. 

Hath  ta’en  your  part.” — Othello,  Act  iii.,  s.  3. 

“ Three  great  ones  of  the  city, 

In  personal  suit  to  make  me  his  lieutenant, 

Off-capp’d  to  him.” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  1. 

" Did  beguile  her  of  her  tears, 
******** 

My  story  being  done, 

She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a world  of  sighs.” 

See  the  whole  exquisite  description  of  that  “ pliant  hour,”  as  given 
by  the  wooer  himself. — Idem,  Act  i.,  s.  3, 

“This  was  her  first  remembrance  from  the  Moor; 

* * * * gUe  so  loves  the  token, 

(For  he  conjur’d  her,  she  would  ever  keep  it,) 

That  she  reserves  it  evermore  about  her, 

To  kiss,  and  talk  to.”  * * * * 

******** 

“ a handkerchief, 

Spotted  with  strawberries.” — Idem, t Act  iii.,  s.  3. 

Bra.  “ Call  up  my  brother.” — Idem,  Act  i,  s.  1. 


“ Send  for  the  lady  to  the  Sagittary.” — Idem,  Act  i.,  s.  3. 


488 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 


TALE  Y. 


Page  385, 
line  10. 


Page  393, 
lines  5 & 6. 


Page  396, 
line  8. 


Page  404, 
line  4. 

Page  434, 
line  21. 


Page  435, 
line  3. 

Page  461, 
line  18. 

Page  462, 
line  3. 

Page  462, 
line  21. 


Page  463, 
line  6. 


Shakespeare’s  commentators  have  spent  much  labour  in  endeavour- 
ing to  reconcile  the  discrepancies  of  detail  in  the  character  of  mistress 
Quickly,  as  it  appears  in  the  three  plays  of  Henry  IY.  (1,  2,)  and  V., 
and  in  the  comedy  of  the  ‘ Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,’  supposing  iden 
tity  of  person.  Here,  the  gordian  knot  has  been  cut,  by  making  them 
two  different  women, — sisters:  one,  the  spinster  of  the  comedy;  the 
other,  the  hostess  and  widow  of  the  historical  plays. 

The  Christian  names  of  mistress  Ford  and  mistress  Page  are  thus  de- 
termined. When  Mrs.  Ford  says : — “ I could  be  knighted  her  friend 
replies: — “What?  Thouliest!  sir  Alice  Ford!”  And  afterwards,  in 
the  same  scene,  Page  addresses  his  wife,  with  : — “ How  now,  Meg  ?” — 
Merry  Wives,  Act  ii.,  s.  1. 

We  find  the  Christian  names  of  master  Ford,  and  master  Page,  thus 
indicated : — Mrs.  Page.  “ Whither  go  you,  George  ? — Hark  you.” 

Mrs.  Ford.  “ How  now,  sweet  Frank  ? Why  art  thou  melancholy  ?” 

Idem , Act  ii.,  s.  1. 

“ Three  of  master  Ford’s  brothers  watch  the  door  with  pistols ; ” 

Idem,  Act  iv.,  s.  2 

“ And  how  doth  my  good  cousin  Silence  ? 

Sil.  Good  morrow,  good  cousin  Shallow. 

Shal.  And  how  doth  my  cousin,  your  bedfellow?  and  your  fairest 
daughter,  and  mine,  my  god-daughter  Ellen  ? * * * I dare  say, 

my  cousm  William  is  become  a good  scholar.” — Henry  IY.,  Act  iii.,  s.  2. 

Slender  says  : — “ I keep  but  three  men  and  a boy  yet,  till  my  mother 
be  dead. — Merry  Wives,  Act  i.,  s.  1. 

“Did  her  grandsire  leave  her  seven  hundred  pound? 

Evans.  Ay ; ” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  1. 

Vide  first  scene  of  the  fourth  act,  in  ‘ The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor.’ 


“How  now,  sir  Hugh  ? no  school  to-day  ? 

Evans.  Ho,  master  Slender  is  let  the  boys  leave  to  play  I — 

Merry  Wives,  Act  iv.,  s.  1, 

Slen.  “ How  does  your  fallow  greyhound,  sir  ? I heard  say,  he  was 
out-run  on  Cotsale.” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  1. 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 


489 


Page  463, 
line  17. 


Page  463, 
line  23. 


Page  462, 
line  2. 

Page  472, 
line  17. 


Page  473, 
line  10. 


Page  477, 
line  2. 


Page  478, 
line  10. 


Shal.  “We  have  linger’d  about  a match  between  Anne  Page  and 
my  cousin  Slender,  and  this  day  we  shall  have  our  answer. 

Slen.  I hope  I have  your  good  ,will,  father  Page. 

Page.  You  have,  master  Slender:  I stand  wholly  for  you:  but  my 
wife,  master  doctor,  is  for  you  altogether.” — Idem , Act  iii.,  s.  2. 

Mrs.  Ford.  “ My  maid’s  aunt,  the  fat  woman  of  Brentford;  * * * 
******  ****** 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  Mother  Prat , come,  give  me  your  hand” 

Idem , Act  iv.,  s.  2. 

Simple.  “ Book  of  riddles  ! Why  did  you  not  lend  it  to  Alice  Short- 
cake upon  Allhallowmas  last.” — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  1. 

“ Two  Edward  shovel-boards  ” [the  broad  shillings  of  Edward  VI., 
sometimes  called  so,  because  they  were  used  in  playing  at  the  game  of 
shovel-board ;]  “ that  cost  me  two  shillings  and  two  pence  a-piece  of 
Yead  Miller  I — Idem , Act  i.,  s.  1. 

“ I will  make  a Star-chamber  matter  of  it : if  he  were  twenty  sir 
John  Falstaffs,  he  shall  not  abuse  Robert  Shallow,  esquire.” 

Idem , Act  i.,  s.  1. 

“ Besides  these,  other  bars  he  lays  before  me, — 

My  riots  past,  my  wild  societies ; 

And  tells  me,  ’tis  a thing  impossible 
I should  love  thee,  but  as  a property. 

Anne.  May  be,  he  tells  you  true. 

Fenton.  ISTo,  heaven  so  speed  me  in  my  time  to  come ! 

Albeit,  I will  confess  thy  father’s  wealth 
Was  the  first  motive  that  I woo’d  thee,  Anne  . 

Yet,  wooing  thee,  I found  thee  of  more  value 
Than  stamps  in  gold,  or  sums  in  sealed  bags ; 

And  ’tis  the  very  riches  of  thyself, 

That  now  I aim  at.” — Idem,  Act  iii.,  s.  4. 

“ He  cannot  abide  the  old  woman  of  Brentford ; he  swears  she’s  a 
witch.” — Idem,  Act  iv.,  s.  2. 


THE  END  OF  FIRST  SERIES: 


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